

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 









V i' 





( ’ 


’ 

I 

I 


k, 

i 



t 


‘I 


t 

». 

i 


V 

} 




W 



* 


9 

I 

/ . 

f 





> 


« 


I 


i 



amber 130 saBSCRlPTION PRICE, $12.00 PER YEAR. Sept. 12, 1892. 

CASSELL’S SUNSHINE SERIES, ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. 

yrRANCE TALES 

OF A 

NIHILIST 


BY 

WILLIAM LE QUEUX 

AUTHOR OF '‘guilty RONDS,” “THE MEMRER FOR HADES,” 
“A PHANTOM WIFE,” ETC. 


f 

NEW YORK 

ASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE 


Entered at the Post Office, New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter, May It, 18 S$, 


By tlie Author of “Is Life Worth Lmng?" 


A HUMAN DOCUMENT. 

A NOVEL. 

BY 

W. H. MALLOOK. 


One VoL, 12mo, Cloth, 75 Cents ; Paper, 50 Cents. 


One of the most widely read books in the English language was 
W. H. Mallock’s “Is Life Worth Living?” His new volume, 
“A Human Document,” just published in Cassell’s Sunshine 
Library, is in the form of a story, which is likely to insure it even 
greater popularity. 

It purports to be founded upon a journal written by a woman and 
a man, which was given him to edit after the death of both, and was 
suggested, as the title shows, by “The Journal of Marie Bashkirt- 
seff.” It is not, however, written in the journal form. Here and 
there extracts from the journal are printed, but the story is told by 
Mr. Mallock, and it is the best thing, in the way of fiction, yet 
produced by its well-known author. 

• ■'ll 

“ Boldly and powerfully written.” — Chicago Times. 

“ Will interest . . , especially those who like their stories treated from a sub- * 
jective standpoint, and delight in the analysis of the various passions.” — Boston •\ 
Courier. 

“ An artistic delineator of human character.” — Toledo Bee. ' M 

“Of exceptional interest.” — Ohio State Journal. 

“ In a style refined, smooth, subtle, pure. Read it.” — San Francisco JVave, 


For Sale by all Booksellers, 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


12 




STRANGE 


TALES OF A NIHILIST 



WILLIAM LE QUEUX 

AUTHOR OF “guilty BOITDS,” “ THE MEMBER FOR HADES,” “A PHANTOM 
WIFE,” ETC. 



NEW YORK 
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
104 & io 6 Fourth Avenue 





Copyright, 1892, by 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


A// rights reserved. 


THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


AUTHOR’S NOTE. 


His Imperial Majesty the Tzar, having upon 
the recommendation of the Press Bureau at St. 
Petersburg prohibited the circulation, throughout 
his empire, of my novel “Guilty Bonds,“ I, there- 
fore, in recognition of the attention he has 
deigned to bestow upon me, dedicate to him 
these “Tales of a Nihilist.” An acquaintance 
with the conditions of Russian life, and with 
prominent members of the Revolutionary Party 
in London and on the Continent, have combined 
to assist me in collecting hitherto unpublished 
information upon which the narratives are based. 
Although many of the incidents are startling and 
thrilling, nevertheless they have actually oc- 
curred, ample proof of which is contained in 
evidence of various kinds in my possession. The 
methods of the agents of the Russian Secret Police 
in London will probably be a revelation to Eng- 
lish readers, few of whom are aware that the 
headquarters of Nihilism exist in their midst. 


iv 


AUTHOR'S NOTE. 


That I have been compelled to bestow fictitious 
names upon the actors in these dramas, and 
change the scene in more than one instance, is 
obvious. Notwithstanding this, however, all the 
characters are from life, and I anticipate that 
readers will recognize in the stories solutions of 
more than one sensational mystery. 


CONTENTS. 


/ PAGE 

y I. A Crooked Fate i 

J II. On Trackless Snow, 28 

J III. My Friend, THE Princess 54 

J IV. The Burlesque of Death, ... 79 

J V. Sophie Zagarovna’s Secret, . . . 106 

J VI. By a Vanished Hand, .... 128 

/ VII. The Judas Kiss, . . . . • .154 

VIII. An Imperial Sugar Plum, . . .179 

y IX. False Zero, 204 

y . X. The Mystery of Lady Gladys, . . 230 

\J XI. An Ikon Oath, 256 

7 XII. The Tzar’s Spy, 284 


y- ■-' ,y < ■ 


>a ’ *.. y-. 

•^4 ^ ‘Ai. 




-.• ^ .V ^ • ' - 

- -•i.' 






-< ' 


ia(ty-'^<< V. .'A, 


'■Jr ^ * ’ 3 ? 

‘* r."C 

V -, '■* :' 'wif* 


* V-* - 


■'•i 




V 


©^'' -•-' -■ - 


•V 




^•.•‘ f- 

- . • -i 

•r/ 


'■; . '■•' 


‘.r ' ^ '.U 

; Ti 

I • • 


- r 

' ^ 
V i 


> 

i. 




1 

( 

IT' 


. ...',: 
■• i_ 


■’*.4 


• ^ 






4 % 


> .•- 4 * 




k • 

'< ■ 


^Ti 


•' V 

. 4 : 


-v - ^ ; /- .i 

■l 5 f,T>- 

- ■s» . 

* ^ *. ^ • 

A T. 



✓ t 
# 


/ 

*■ ■* i 

* -. 

• 


.'7 .“ 


v'V. 


• 7 * .. ^ • • : ^ . 

- j. * « ' 

- } .0 * • . 


V»? \ ., 

-c- '7 ■ 



. t 


r 

% 

\‘ , 


V »• 




I • 

I 


. v" ' .T 

-r.fr" •«' 



. 'V 


\ , " ^ ' -fV ' • 

;-'f; ■ 

- T • .t> • ■■ 

,*?‘-:u'f. '• v’ajfc 




■nfT*. 

’ ?-• 


. * 

V • 

.v>^ .._- 







■ .3 ■■**■ ' . 


• f 



-■ 










D 


X 


. 1 '.: 




'% 


>.^- Ti^ •'‘> . 

'Ky^-W 


- 1 -? 


. • 

■• '" ‘^V fc . ^ » a s * 

^ ;■ -w V 

* ’r < * 


:^ =*- . ■ 

' « * 


* %.■ 






1 . 
V 


3 




(v .n-^ - * ■ : *V ' <>.' . • .:^fr- ' ■ '^ •' :• ' r:- a ■%. -- 

WiC^V 9 ' ' < ^ f ^ V .* 


■ #- 


'W- ^ 


E;^^:VO‘r -„aMV. - .-> ■' 
5 ^ < 


k ’ ^ 

A • ' , 


v -v i 'Vf 


'* • :'..^\ 


*v .< * 


*r 



i.?S' 







^•V vVit 

. ' V V B I 



.. ^ ‘*< 


ts 


-# 


L^ 









* 


•>'y ■%- ■- ‘ 

— — 


✓ . , 

;■• 

I 

h- 



w ^. . • . .-A . 


> 


Ij»' ' I' • V . j r , ' 

;’^ t: • ^ • 


-rr - 

k ■ 


',V 


■* N 


Zm •) 




\ 


j ", -. ' i: ' " * 


• ' 

I t 


^ • 
f'* 


: - ^Vf i 


.V \r 5 ;i 






' -•; 


A*’ 




t* 

S 


V 


- r. > 


sV 


■N. 


^4 *- 


'iX. : 


>'r 








. I 


Vt,'. 5 '-..-- 

■- 




• I 


'VI 





•r**" 


,A' 




-fUf /*■- 

SV 


t 


'‘j:r 


^ 1 
,£•■ 1 • * 


r 


\>' 




« t ••\t 


>•* 






. * V 


.,:-N. ;a, 


n ••It 


V - 


. . v^*.- 

j *fr i ' 


'.v.^ t 


f ^ 

• il- 


- V -J*' * {•'• ■ ;'- >. ^ ::s ./A 


STRANGE TALES OE A NIHILIST. 


I. 

A CROOKED FATE. 

Brief forewords are necessary to this record 
of facts. 

I, Vladimir Mikhalovitch, subject of the Tzar, 
now in exile in England, hereby make a free and 
full confession of my secret alliance with the so- 
called Nihilist Party. 

At the outset it is my earnest desire to dis- 
abuse the minds of English readers that the 
Party of Freedom is a mere murder league. Un- 
fortunately, English novelists, unacquainted with 
Russian life, ignorant of the true objects of the 
organization, of its inner working, and only recog- 
nizing its far reaching influence, have surrounded 
it with a glamour and mystery that would be 
highly amusing to us were it not for the fact 
that their sensational and sanguinary narratives 




A ckookEb fate. 


injure our cause. So little does the average Eng- 
lishman know of the conditions of life under the 
Tzar, that an argument in favor of Nihilism 
would be useless and wearisome, therefore I leave 
him to decide for himself, after reading the excit- 
ing episodes of an adventurous career, whether 
Autocracy or Freedom is to be preferred. 

Before closing this preface, I have one declar- 
ation to make. We, who are struggling to effect a 
change for the better in the internal and econom- 
ical condition of the Russian people, look with 
envy upon every Englishman, at the same time 
regarding him as a brother. To overthrow Tzar- 
dom by murder is not our object, although, alas ! 
human life has been sacrificed, as my narrative 
will show. We desire peace; and while staying 
our hand, and refraining from dealing the blows 
that are at this moment in our power to strike at 
the Imperial Autocracy, we are living in the 
expectation that the flood of popular indignation 
will sweep off the face of the Russian soil the 
present ruinous and shameful system of organ- 
ized robbery and tyranny, and create something 
better than the existing brutality and corruption 
that has plunged so many millions in abject 
misery. 


A CROOKED FATE. 


3 


Prior to narrating the exciting incidents of my 
career, it will be necessary, in order that it should 
be rightly understood why I lifted a hand against 
the rule of the Great White Tzar, to describe the 
tragic events which led to the overflow of my 
indignation against tyranny, and subsequent alli- 
ance with the Brothers of Freedom. 

I commenced life under a disadvantage, for I 
am a Jew. 

In Russia the law declares all Hebrews to be 
“aliens whose several rights are regulated by 
special ordinances,” and my race is regarded as a 
pariah caste in consequence. The memory of 
my earlier years it is unnecessary to recall. My 
father, Isaac Mikhalovitch, was a well known 
operator on the Bourse at St. Petersburg, and he 
and my mother moved in good society. Our 
house in the Liteinaia was well known to people 
with long sounding titles and longer pedigrees, 
and, as children, my sister Mascha and I had 
made a practice of standing upon the stairs on 
Thursday nights, watching the arrival of the 
uniformed and decorated men and handsome 
ladies who attended the fetes which my parents 
gave weekly during the season. 

Mascha, who was three years my junior, was 


4 


A CROOKED FATE, 


petted by the guests and servants none the less 
than I had been, for we were a parr of over- 
indulged children, and lived a life of uninter- 
rupted happiness. 

At last I arrived at an age when departure 
from home was compulsory, and one eventful, 
day I bade farewell to those I loved and was 
drafted to Vologda to perform my military 
service. From a life of luxurious ease to a sol- 
dier’s existence in the barren district around 
Lake Kubinskoi was by no means a pleasurable 
change, especially as, according to law, no Jew 
can rise to the rank of officer, although he is 
bound to serve in the rank and file like all other 
Russians. Nevertheless, I endured the wearying 
monotony of eternal drilling, receiving occasional 
letters that came from my distant home like brief 
rays of sunshine upon my otherwise dark, un- 
happy life. Suddenly, when I had been at 
Vologda about two years, they ceased. Several 
times I wrote, but received no answer. I tele- 
graphed, but with the same result. I wrote to 
relatives in Petersburg inquiring the cause of my 
parents’ strange silence, yet even these letters 
remained unanswered. 

Unable to obtain leave of absence, the days 


A CROOKED FATE. ^ 

passed slowly, and I grew sorely puzzled at the 
mystery. 

Imagine my feelings when one morning a com- 
rade, who had had a Novoe Vrentya sent to him, 
handed me the newspaper and, pointing to a line, 
asked : 

“Is he any relation of yours?” 

I looked eagerly where he indicated. My 
heart stood still, and the paper fell from my 
nerveless grasp. 

It was an announcement to the effect that 
“Isaac Mikhalovitch, Jew, of the Liteinaia, St. 
Petersburg,” had formed one of the convoy of 
prisoners exiled by administrative process to 
Siberia during the past week ! 

Ignorant of the whereabouts of my mother 
and sister, and apprehensive regarding their 
future, I continued my military service until the 
day arrived when I was free to return and seek 
them. 

To preserve the continuity of this narrative, 
events must be here described which were after- 
ward related to me by Mascha. It appeared 
that from some unknown cause my unfortunate 
father had fallen into disfavor with the Tzar, 
although nothing was known of it until one night. 


6 


A CROOKED FATE, 


during the progress of a ball at home, half a 
dozen men from the Okhrannoe Otdelenie^ or 
“Security Section,” entered and arrested him. 
A fortnight later he was sent, without trial, to 
the mines of the Trans-Baikal, after which all he 
possessed was confiscated by the government, 
and my mother and sister turned into the streets 
to starve. 

Our relations were poor and could do little to 
assist them, therefore, in order to hide their pov- 
erty, Mascha and her mother went to Mstislavl, 
a small, sleepy town in the Government of Moghi- 
ley, where for nearly a year they earned a pre- 
carious livelihood by doing needlework and 
making lace. But the year 1882 was disastrous 
to Russia, for a terrible famine spread over the 
land, and, alas ! for my unfortunate family, its 
effects were keenly felt in Moghilev. At the 
time I arrived at St. Petersburg in search of 
them, they had no work and were absolutely 
starving. 

Stretched upon a straw mattress in the corner 
of a cold, bare room, lay my mother, her thin, 
haggard face, protruding cheek bones, and 
sunken eyes, showing unmistakably that death 
was at hand. 


A CROOKED FATE. 


7 


Mascha stood, pale and motionless, looking 
down upon her sorrowfully. In the gray light of 
the brief autumn day the meager room presented 
a woeful aspect, being almost devoid of furniture, 
and the fire in the round, discolored stove having 
gone out several days ago. Notwithstanding 
her plain, shabby dress, it was certain that 
Mascha was beautiful ; all Mstislavl, if called 
upon, would bear witness to this fact. About 
eighteen years of age, she was tall, slender, grace- 
ful, with beautifully rounded throat and arms, 
light, wavy hair drawn back upon her brow, a 
dazzling complexion, and eyes of that childlike 
blue that presupposes a purity of soul. When 
she smiled her charms were enhanced by an ex- 
pression of indescribable simplicity and frank- 
ness. 

At this moment, however, she presented a sad 
picture, for her hair had fallen disheveled about 
her handsome face., and her eyes were red with 
weeping. As her mother tossed wearily upon 
her pallet, moaning in pain, Mascha fell upon her 
knees and kissed the cold, drawn face. 

“Are you suffering much, mother dearest?” 
she asked tenderly, smoothing away the dark 
hair from the clammy forehead. 


8 


A CROOKED FATE. 


“Yes; I — I’m sinking fast, my child,’’ she re- 
plied in a faint, hoarse voice. “I shall leave you 
very soon, Mascha, and you will be alone, with 
no other protector except God, to whose mercy I 
confide you. Trust in Him in the hours of 
affliction or misfortune, and by His infinite 
power He will guide your footsteps and protect 
you from all harm.’’ She paused, and added, 
“Though you may be scoffed at and persecuted 
by orthodox Russians, never forget that you are 
one of God’s chosen, and while resenting insult, 
always refrain from revenge.’’ 

“I can’t bear to hear you talk like this,’’ cried 
my sister, bursting into tears. “You must not — 
you shall not die!’’ Springing suddenly to her 
feet, she stifled her sobs, and said, “You shan’t 
starve ! I’ll save you, even if compelled to beg 
bread from the Gentiles. I shall not be long, 
and I will bring you food.’’ 

With these words she threw a cloak around 
her shoulders, and opening the door, disap- 
peared, while her mother closed her wearied 
eyes, and prayed earnestly for succor. 

Through the old, uncleanly Ghetto — the quar- 
ter in which Jews were suffered to reside — 
Mascha wandered aimlessly, wondering where 


A CROOKED FATE. 


9 


she could discover a person generous enough to 
give her a morsel of bread. She knew it was 
useless to ask for food of the people of her own 
faith, for they were in terrible distress also. 
Owing to the failure of the harvest for two con- 
secutive seasons, food was so scarce in Western 
Russia, that in many places the peasants were 
subsisting on grass and roots, while hundreds 
were dying daily of sheer starvation. But worst 
of all, the feeling against the Jews had become 
greatly embittered from the fact that the mujiks, 
in their ignorant fanaticism, had been taught to 
believe by the village popes that the Hebrews 
had brought the famine upon the land. Hence 
Jew-baiting had become rife. Unfortunate Isra- 
elites were cuffed and assaulted in the open 
streets, and were unable to obtain redress, and in 
dozens of towns in Little and Central Russia 
the Ghettos had been looted and afterward 
burned. 

In these anti-Semitic excesses, Jews were 
treated worse than dogs, and ruthlessly mur- 
dered, without a hand being stretched forth to 
save them, while women were outraged in sight 
of their children, and various diabolical atrocities 
committed, which had raised the indignation of 


lO 


A CROOKED FATE. 


every other European nation. Murder and pil- 
lage ran riot through the Tzar’s domains side by 
side with the grim specter Famine, which had 
spread starvation and death from the ¥^hite Sea 
to the Caucasus. 

The Ghetto at Mstislavl was the oldest quarter 
of the little town, consisting of one dark, evil 
smelling street, into which the sun never seemed 
to shine. The black wooden houses, with 
numerous poles projecting from the windows, 
further increased the darkness of the narrow lane. 
From end to end, Mascha walked through it, but 
found no one who could render her assistance. 
The place seemed deserted, for . the houses were 
all closed, and the usually noisy colony was 
hushed by death. 

Leaving the Jews’ quarter, she made her way 
through the town and entered the market place, 
where a little business was still being carried on. 
Groups of mujiks, in their sheepskins, were 
standing about idly, their thin, pinched faces 
showing that they, too, were feeling the effect of 
the dearth of food. While wandering along, 
engrossed in her own sad thoughts, Mascha 
chanced to look up, and her eyes fell upon a 
buxom young woman who held a large piece of 


A CROOKED FATE. 


II 


bread in her hand, from which she was feeding a 
great, black dog. 

The thought flashed across her mind that she 
must get food by some means, and save her 
mother’s/ life. Without a moment’s reflection, 
she stifled her pride, and, rushing wildly across to 
where the woman stood, begged for a portion of 
the bread. 

“You ! Give bread to you !” cried the woman, 
with a harsh, brutal laugh. “You Hebrews are 
dogs, but this” — and she pointed to the animal 
at her feet — “this is a Christian dog, and I 
would rather feed him than you.” 

“For my mother’s sake!” implored Mascha. 
“She’s dying!” 

“Bah! If she dies it will be one Jewess the 
less. You people are our curse. Go home and 
die too !” 

Ancf the woman spat upon her contemp- 
tuously, and, turning her back upon the suppli- 
cant, continued feeding the dog. 

Mascha, crestfallen and dejected, was walking 
slowly away when she suddenly felt a heavy 
hand upon her shoulder. 

“Now, girl; what do you want here?” inquired 
a rough, coarse voice. 


12 


A CROOKED FATE. 


Glancing up quickly, she recognized the sinis- 
ter features, and shifty feline eyes, of Ivan Osna- 
vitsch, the ispravjiik^ or Chief of Police. 

“I want bread ; my mother is starving,” she 
replied. 

“Starving? Like all the other dogs that infest 
the Ghetto kennels, eh? Well, you’ve no right 
to beg of Christians. The law of the mir forbids 
it, and I ought to send you to prison as a vaga- 
bond. If you want food you should go to the 
governor. His Excellency has received relief 
for distribution, and if you call upon him he may 
probably give you some. Tell him that I sent 
you.” 

“Oh, thank you,” she replied ; “I’ll go at once.” 

Turning, she directed her steps hurriedly 
toward the palace of the government, about a 
mile from the town on the Lubkovo road, while 
the ispravnik laughed, muttering as he watched 
her retreating figure: “His Excellency is a con- 
noisseur of pretty faces. He will thank me for 
sending her.” 

Feeling that not a moment was to be lost, 
Mascha walked quickly along the dusty highway, 
which ran through a green, fertile country, beside 
the sedgy bank of the swiftly flowing Soj River, 


A CROOKED FATE. 


13 


Only by repute was General Martianoff, the 
Governor of Mstislavl, known to her. She knew 
that by the inhabitants of the Ghetto he was 
dreaded as a cruel, drunken, and depraved offi- 
cial, and she had heard the rabbi warn them 
against breaking any of the thousand tyrannical 
laws which comprise the Swod, or penal code. A 
Russian district governor is locally as much of 
an autocrat as his Imperial Master, the Tzar. 
He can do exactly what he pleases with the 
poor, cringing wretches over whom he is given 
authority. He can condemn Jew or Gentile to 
prison without trial ; he can order anyone who 
displeases him to be publicly knouted ; and with 
his colleague, the ispravnik, and his myrmidons, 
can enforce inhuman tortures not a whit the less 
terrible than those of the Spanish Inquisition. 

General Martianoff, a fair specimen of the aver- 
age nachalniki^ ruled his district with the knout, 
and hating Jews, considered death without tor- 
ture too good for them. He had even ordered 
unoffending Hebrews to be publicly flogged 
because their children omitted to doff their caps 
to government officials whom they ixiet in the 
streets ! 

It was of this harsh, inhuman governor that 


14 


A CROOKED FATE. 


my poor, trusting sister, famished and desperate, 
sought aid for her dying mother. 

The general was lazily smoking a cigar and 
reading the Novosti in his own well furnished 
room, when a man-servant entered, and after 
saluting, said: “A young girl desires to see your 
Excellency. I told her you could not give audi- 
ence to anyone.” 

“Idiot ! Why did you send her away?” 

“She was only a Jewess, your Excellency. 
But she is still here. She’s the daughter of the 
financier Mikhalovitch of St. Petersburg, who 
was sent to the mines.” 

“Mikhalovitch!” repeated the general in a 
tone of surprise. “Ah! Show her in, and — 
and see we are not disturbed, Ivanovitch — you 
understand.” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” And the man sa- 
luted and disappeared. 

In a few seconds Mascha, pale and trembling, 
advanced timidly into the room. The governor 
was standing near the door when she entered, and 
as he closed it after her, he raised the portiere 
and pushed the bolt into its socket. Then he 
turned sharply toward her, and asked : 

“Well, girl, what do you want?” 


J CR06l^E£> PaTe. 


“Your Excellency, “ said Mascha, bowing with 
that fawning humility which every Hebrew is 
bound to show toward government officials, “I 
have been sent by our good ispravnik, Ivan 
Osnavitsch.” 

“Very kind of him to select beauty for me and 
send it to my door. I’m sure,” remarked the gen- 
eral under his breath. 

Continuing, Mascha briefly explained that she 
and her mother were starving, and that the latter 
was dying of sheer want. 

“But you are a Jewess,” he said sternly. 
“The relief which my Imperial Master has in- 
trusted me to distribute is only for orthodox 
Russians.” 

“Have pity; have mercy upon us,” she cried 
earnestly. “I know that I, a Jewess, have no 
right to ask a favor of your Excellency, but my 
dear mother is dying!” 

“I cannot prevent that, my pretty one,” he 
said more kindly, stroking her fair disheveled 
hair. ^ 

With a quick movement he placed his arm 
around her waist, and, grasping her tightly, 
pressed her against his breast, and added : 
“Come, I must have a kiss!” 


A CROOKED FATE. 


i6 

Before she could evade him, she felt his hot 
breath upon her face, and his lips pressed her 
soft, dimpled cheek. Trembling with fear and 
flushed with indignation, she struggled, and suc- 
ceeded in freeing herself from his hateful 
clutches. But she did not upbraid him, although 
her face became more woeful than before. 

Frowning, he regarded her with an expression 
of displeasure, saying: “The wife and child of a 
political exile classed among the dangerous Ni- 
hilists can expect no relief from his Majesty’s 
private purse.” 

“It is to your sympathy that I appeal,” 
Mascha exclaimed imploringly. “Although my 
people and yours are of different creed, we all 
adore the same Father, our Tzar.” 

“And Isaac Mikhalovitch was sent to Siberia 
by ^tape for conspiring against his life ! Curious 
adoration, eh?” 

“It’s false!” she cried hotly. “He was 
wrongly accused, denounced by some unknown 
enemy, and sent straight to Irkutsk without any 
chance of defense.” 

“Ha, ha! my pretty champion. So that is 
the way you speak of the justice of his Majesty! 
Your words betray you; they show that you. 


A CROOKED FATE. 


17 


too, have become imbued with the revolutionary 
propaganda.” 

Mascha saw she had been trapped. In a mo- 
ment she knew that he suspected her of Nihilis- 
tic tendencies. 

Martianoff noticed her alarm, and said: “You 
need not fear. I don’t intend that you should 
share your father’s fate. You are too pretty for 
that.” 

“Have you decided to give me food?” she 
demanded, her brows knit in displeasure. 

His coarse, sensual features again relaxed into 
a complacent smile, as he suddenly flung his arm 
around her neck. Bending, he placed his lips 
close to her ear, and whispered some words. 

“No! no!” she cried wildly. “God protect 
me! Anything but that!” And she struggled 
to freq herself from his embrace. 

“You refuse?” he said in a stern, harsh voice. 

“I would rather die than agree to such 
terms,” she replied, her eyes flashing with indig- 
nation. 

“Very well,” he snarled, as he thrust her from 
him impatiently. “Go back to your hovel and 
die, you daughter of a dog. Begone !” 

“But, your Excellency — I ” 


A CRdOl^ED RATE. 


“No more words,” he thundered, adding a 
curse. “Go! or Til fling you out.” 

Staggering to the door, sorrowful and crest- 
fallen, she drew back the bolt and went out, her 
eyes half blinded by tears. 

The' moment she had gone, the general 
touched a gong, at the same time muttering: 
“The dainty, obstinate little bird must be 
brought to her senses. She must be put into a 
cage and tamed.” 

“Ivanovitch,” he said aloud, addressing his 
servant. “That Jewess is a Nihilist. Order 
Osnavitsch to have her closely watched.” 

Then he viciously bit the end off another 
cigar, and, taking up the paper, resumed his 
reading. 

It was night. 

Mascha, after leaving the palace of the govern- 
ment, had wandered about for several hours in 
search of someone who would give her bread ; 
but all her efforts were futile, and when she 
returned to the Ghetto, she had found that her 
mother’s feeble life had flickered and gone out. 

With the moonlight full upon her she was 
kneeling beside the body, her face buried in the 


A CkOdit^D kATk. 


^9 


ragged covering, and sobbing as if her heart 
would break. Unable to restrain her flood of 
emotion, she did not notice the cautious opening 
of the door, or the entrance of a tall, dark figure, 
which crept noiselessly up behind her and stood 
in the shadow, watching, and listening to her 
murmurings. 

“It’s cruel,’’ she said aloud, suddenly drawing 
a long breath and clenching her teeth in despair. 
‘’To the Tzar is due all the dire misfortune that 
has fallen upon our house. He has taken our 
money and cast us forth to die like dogs! It is 
he — the Tzar — the murderer! — who is responsible 
for my mother’s death. He is a vampire who 
lives on the blood of such as us.” Raising her 
tear-stained face and looking up to the clear, 
bright moon, she cried: “What can I do? My 
father, exiled, my mother dead, Vladimir on mili- 
tary service, and I am left alone — alone,” she 
added in a half fearful whisper, “to seek revenge !” 

“Very pretty sentiments, indeed,” remarked a 
gruff, harsh voice. 

Springing to her feet she confronted General 
Martianoff. 

“You!” she gasped. “Why — why do you 
come here?” 


20 


A CROOKED FATE. 


“To see you, my pretty one,” he replied, 
throwing off his great fur-lined shuba. 

He endeavored to place his arm around her 
waist, but she drew back quickly. 

“And you have followed me here,” she said in 
a tone of reproachful disgust — “here, into the 
room where my mother lies dead, in order to 
continue your hateful advances — to insult me 
before her corpse !” 

“Ho, ho!” he said, annoyed. “Then you 
have not reconsidered your decision?” 

“No,” she replied firmly. “Have I not already 
told you that I would prefer death?” 

He argued with her, flattered her, laughing all 
the time at her indignation, and treating it with 
flippancy. 

Suddenly she turned upon him with angry pas- 
sion, saying: “I desire none of your detestable 
caresses. It is such heartless officials as you 
who curse our country, who carry out the ukases 
of the Autocrat with fiendish delight, and who 
are the catspaws of the persecutor of our race. 
What mercy ought I to expect from you, Gen- 
eral Martianoff, who sent Anna Ivanovna to the 
mines merely because she displeased you, and 
who condemned Paul Sonvaroff to solitary con- 


A CROOKED FATE. 


21 


finement in Petfopaulovsk for no offense except 
that he endeavored to save a defenseless woman 
from your merciless clutches? It is ” 

“Silence, wench !“ he thundered. 

“I will not be hushed when you insult me! 
You talk of love — you, whose dissolute habits 
are as well known as the yellow ticket of shame 
you would thrust upon us Jewesses. I begged 
bread from you, and you refused. See I there is 
the result !” and she pointed to where the body 
lay. 

His face had grown livid, and rushing toward 
her, he grasped her roughly by the shoulder. “I 
have not come here on a fool’s errand,” he said 
fiercely. “I don’t intend that you shall evade 
me — you understand?” 

“Let me go!” she demanded, struggling to get 
free. “Help! help!” she cried. 

“Silence ! Curse you !” he growled, striking 
her a heavy blow upon the nose and mouth. Al- 
though stunned for a few moments she continued 
to struggle desperately. 

Suddenly he lifted her from her feet and tried 
to drag her by sheer force to the door leading to 
the room beyond. She saw his intention, and for 
several minutes fought fiercely, with a renewed 


25 


A CkOoItMD Pate. 


strength of which she had not believed herself 
capable. 

Presently, in the heat of the struggle, some- 
thing heavy fell from his pocket. She stooped 
and managed to snatch it up. At that moment 
she felt her strength failing and exerted every 
muscle. 

“Will you let me go?” she shrieked, her lips 
cut and swollen by the cruel blow he had dealt 
her. 

“No, I will not,” he replied, with an impreca- 
tion. 

As he uttered the words, something bright 
glittered in her hand. He grasped her arm, 
endeavoring to gain possession of it. 

But too late. 

There was a flash, a loud report, and General 
Martianoff staggered back against the wall with 
an agonized cry. 

“You — you’ve shot me!” he gasped hoarsely, 
and then sank upon a chair, inert and helpless, 
with blood streaming from a wound in his 
shoulder. 

Mascha, in desperation, had resorted to the 
last extremity in defense of her honor. 


A CROOKED FATE. 


23 


That night was an eventful one in Mstislavl. 

The ignorant moujiks, encouraged by the offi- 
cials of the government, had heaped every indig- 
nity possible upon the Jews, and the anti-Semitic 
feeling reached a climax when it became known 
that a Jewess had attempted to assassinate the 
governor. 

Led by a wild-haired local agitator, a mob of a 
thousand persons proceeded to the Ghetto and 
carried out a frightful work of destruction. 
They surged down the narrow street, and after 
entering the houses and treating the inmates 
with shocking brutality, looted and set fire to 
their homes. The enraged rioters wrecked the 
synagogue and killed the rabbi, shouting: “Clear 
out the rats’ nest ! Kill them all !” Screams of 
pain mingled with wild yells of pleasure, and 
through the long night the Ghetto was a verita- 
ble pandemonium. 

The scene was terrible. The street ran with 
blood. Many Jewish women fell victims to the 
brutal lust and fanatic frenzy of the mob, and 
were so barbarously maltreated that eleven 
succumbed, while a dozen men were shot or , 
stabbed. 

Before dawn the Ghetto had been totally de- 


24 


A CROOKED FATE. 


stroyecl and its unfortunate inhabitants, having 
lost everything they had, were compelled to seek 
shelter in the forest on the Kritchev road, where 
many afterward died of exposure and starvation. 

General Martianoff lost no time in wreaking 
his vengeance upon my hapless sister. She had 
been arrested and taken to prison immediately 
after firing the shot, and he had condemned her 
to receive fifty lashes of the knout. Such a sen- 
tence was tantamount to death, for punishment 
by the knout is so barbarous a torture that few 
strong men could survive so many strokes. Yet 
public whippings are of everyday occurrence in 
the Tzar’s empire, and even women are hot 
spared by the officials. 

It was about ten o’clock on the following 
morning when Mascha emerged from the grimy 
portals of the prison, and, under a strong escort, 
walked across the market place to the temporary 
platform that had been erected. A great crowd 
had assembled to witness the chastisement of 
“the pretty Jewess,’’ and as she mounted the 
steps, with pale, determined face, they greeted 
her with yells of triumph. 

She looked round upon the sea of upturned 
countenances contemptuously. 


A CROOKED FATE. 


25 


On the platform there had been set up a 
square wooden frame, inclined diagonally. Un- 
ceremoniously the brutal moujiks who assisted 
the executioner grasped her with their coarse, 
dirty hands and tore off her clothing, exposing 
her bare, white back down to the waist. 

The irate mob roared with approbation when 
they saw this preparation, and a few moments 
later she was forced upon the black frame, and 
her wrists and ankles secured so tightly that the 
tension caused dislocation of the joints. Then 
the executioner, whose duty it was to carry out 
the sentence, seized the knout — a number of tri- 
angular thongs of leather fixed into a short whip 
handle — and looked round for the signal to com- 
mence. As he did so. General Martianoff, with 
his shoulder bandaged, made his way through 
the expectant crowd, and shouted : 

“Come, get to work. Don’t spare her, but 
keep the death blow till last.’’ 

Hushed and open-mouthed, the spectators 
awaited the result of the first blow. 

The executioner receded, swung the terrible 
torture instrument over his head, and, giving it a 
peculiar twist, brought it down upon the victim’s 
back with a sound like a pistol shot, 


26 


A CROOKED FATE. 


The cruel thongs cut their way into the flesh, 
and the blood gushed forth. Time after time 
the blows fell monotonously, until the flesh was 
cut into strips, and both victim and executioner 
were covered with blood. 

Such was the scene of fiendish brutality that 
met my gaze on my arrival at Mstislavl, after 
having traced my mother and sister from St. 
Petersburg. 

I was making my way through the shouting 
populace when, out of mere curiosity, I glanced 
at the face of the unfortunate girl, and recog- 
nized her. 

Was it surprising that I rushed wildly up and 
endeavored to stop the horrible punishment? 
So suddenly did it all happen, however, that I 
remember very little about it, except that in my 
wrathful indignation I cursed the Tzar’s myrmi- 
dons, and struck the inhuman governor, who 
attempted to throw me off the platform. Think- 
ing that I was Mascha’s lover, and enraged at 
the blow, he thereupon ordered me to receive 
thirty lashes. 

I saw them carry away the insensible and 
mutilated form of my poor sister. 

Then they tied me to the reeking frame. 


A CROOKED FATE. 


27 


I felt the thongs cut into my back like knives. 
Once! Twice! Thrice! The pain became ex- 
cruciating. My head reeled, and a moment later 
all became blank. 

When I regained consciousness I found myself 
in the prison hospital with warders rubbing salt 
into my wounds in order to heal them. I asked 
after Mascha, and was informed that she was 
still alive, and recovering. 

One fnorning, while exercising in the prison 
yard, I saw her for a few brief moments, and she 
told me the story I have narrated. 

Two days afterward my warder announced 
that my sister and I had been condemned by 
General Martianoff as assisting in the dissem- 
ination of the revolutionary propaganda, and sen- 
tenced to hard labor for life in the Siberian 
mines ! 

Then I made a solemn vow of revenge, and 
from that moment became a Nihilist, 


II. 

ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


For nearly six months I had been kept in soli- 
tary confinement in a small, cold, ill lit cell in the 
fortress at St. Petersburg, whither I had been 
transferred from Mstislavl. Dispirited by soli- 
tude, weakened by lack of exercise, and ill 
through want of proper medical attention, I 
began to fear that the confinement would cause 
my reason to give way, therefore it was with a 
feeling of relief that one day I greeted the an- 
nouncement of my warder that we were to start 
for Siberia on the morrow. 

A detailed description of the frightful hard- 
ships of my long, terrible journey would fill a 
volume ; it is only my intention to outline them 
briefly. 

With a hundred other men and women of all 
ages we left the grim fortress at midnight, a 
sorry, smileless band, whose clanking chains 
formed an ominous accompaniment to the loud 
shouts and cracking of whips of our Cossack 

28 


ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


29 


escorts. We were each attired in gray kaftan, 
strong kneeboots, and sheepskin bonnet. Our 
breasts bore a metal plate with a number, while 
strapped over our shoulders was the rug, the 
mess tin, and the wooden spoon that comprised 
our traveling kit. 

With ankles fettered by long, heavy chains, 
which were held to the waist by means of a rope, 
we were fastened together in gangs, and passed 
out upon the Chudova road on the first stage of 
the weary tramp to that bourne whence few 
exiles return. The rumbling of the springless 
carts in the rear, for those who might fall ill on 
the way, awoke the echoes of the silent thor- 
oughfares, and following us were several Cos- 
sacks with lanterns, who carefully examined the 
road over which we had passed, in order that no 
letter should be dropped clandestinely. 

The night was wet and stormy as our weird, 
dismal procession passed through the slumbering 
city and out upon the broad highway on its jour- 
ney eastward to the Urals. Our wet clothes 
clung to us as we walked, and the icy wind that 
blew across the wide, open plain chilled our 
bones. Nevertheless, we plodded doggedly on- 
ward in silence, for conversation had been forbid- 


30 ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 

den, and those who had spoken had felt the 
heavy thong of the escort’s whip. The settled 
looks of despair, and the sighs that frequently 
escaped my fellow-exiles, plainly showed what 
were their feelings at being banished from their 
native land. 

Since the day I had seen Mascha in the prison 
yard, I had heard nothing of her. A thousand 
times I had wondered what had been her fate; 
yet now, in my despair, I had relinquished all 
hope of seeing her again. Indeed, irreparable 
ruin had descended upon myself and my family 
so swiftly, that already I had grown callous as to 
my ultimate fate. 

Without trial, I had been sentenced by the 
Provincial Governor of Moghilev, upon the re- 
port of General Martianoff, to hard labor for life. 
Such, alas! was my punishment for endeavoring 
to rescue my poor defenseless sister from the 
inhuman Avrath of the dissolute representative of 
the Tzar! I was well aware that for the Russian 
political convict is reserved a death by slow tor- 
ture to which any other means of ending life is 
preferable. The silver mines in the terrible dis- 
trict beyond Lake Baikal are the tombs of politi- 
cal suspects. The government is well aware that 


ON- mACNlMSS SNOWS, 

the conditions under which convicts work at 
Kara, Nerchinsk, Pokrofski, and the other dis- 
tant mining settlements to which “politicals’' are 
sent, are such as to cause death in from five to 
seven years. With that refinement of cruelty for 
which the Tzar’s government has earned an un- 
enviable notoriety, it has abolished the death 
sentence and substituted one which is more tor- 
turing. The prisons and Stapes of Siberia are 
foul, insanitary, half ruined wooden structures 
where human beings perish like flies. Typhus 
fever, diphtheria, and other epidemic diseases 
prevail there constantly, and infect all who have 
the misfortune to be huddled into the awful 
places. The grievously sick, for want of attend- 
ance, wallow on the floor in the midst of filth, 
and the clothes rot on their bodies; while so 
overcrowded are these pestilential kanieras by 
persons of all ages and both sexes, that for those 
who are not fever-stricken there is neither room 
to sit or lie. 

The exiles who are consigned underground are 
convicts of the worst type, and political offenders 
of the best. The murderer for his villainy, the 
intelligent, honest Muscovite who expresses lib- 
eral opinions — not a whit more revolutionary 


32 


ON TkACKLESS SNOWS. 


than the ideas of English Gladstonians — are 
deemed equally worthy of slow, agonizing death. 

Having reached Chudova, we were conveyed 
by train to Nijni Novgorod, and there placed in 
a sort of cage, on board a large barge, and taken 
down the Volga and up the Kama River to Perm, 
whence we took train to Ekaterinburg, a town of 
considerable proportions on the other side of the 
Urals. 

Here our weary journey on foot across Siberia 
commenced, and long before the Asiatic frontier 
was reached, the paucity of human habitations, 
the barrenness of the soil, and the increasing 
bleakness of the climate, had had their effect 
upon even the hardiest among us. But we still 
pushed onward, though ill, hungry, and footsore. 

I remember well the day we crossed the fron- 
tier, and left our native land. 

Already we had walked three hundred versts 
from Ekaterinburg, along the Great Post Road, 
which was then covered by a deep snow, and 
only marked by the long straight line of black 
telegraph posts and wires. Away, as far as the 
eye could reach, nothing was visible but the 
broad plain of dazzling whiteness, and the gray, 
snow-laden sky, when suddenly we came to a 


ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


33 


tall, square, brick-built obelisk, which bore on 
one side the arms of the European province of 
Perm, and on the other those of the Asiatic 
province of Tobolsk. It was the boundary post 
of Siberia. 

No other boundary mark in the world has wit- 
nessed so much human suffering, or has been 
passed by such a multitude of heart-broken peo- 
ple, says Mr. George Kennan. As it is situated 
about half-way between the last European and 
the first Siberian Hape, the captain allowed our 
convoy to halt for rest, and for a last farewell to 
home and country. The Russian peasant, even 
when a criminal, is patriotic, and deeply attached 
to his native land ; and there was a heartrending 
scene when our wearied band stopped before the 
crumbling obelisk. Some gave way to wild hys- 
terical grief ; some comforted the weeping ; oth- 
ers knelt and pressed their faces to the loved soil 
of their native land, and collected a little earth 
to take with them into exile, while a few of the 
women, pale, tragic figures in their black-hooded 
cloaks, pressed their lips to the European side of 
the cold brick pillar, kissing good-by to all it 
symbolized. 

, The officer commanding our escort, who had 


34 


On T/CACNL£SS SNOfVS. 


been smoking a cigarette, and looking with calm 
indifference upon this touching scene, suddenly 
shouted the stern order, '' Stroisa ! '" (“Form 
Ranks”), and at the word “March,” a few mo- 
ments later, we crossed ourselves, and with a 
confused jingling of chains and leg fetters, moved 
slowly away, past the boundary post, into 
Siberia. 

Day after day, week after week, hungry, cold, 
and fatigued, we trudged across the bleak, snow- 
covered steppes, until life became so burden- 
some that we longed for death instead. 

Sometimes we passed the night in an insani- 
tary ^tape in one of the wretched little villages 
along the road, but often we camped out in the 
open, and after our meager ration of tschi^ 
wrapped our rugs around us, and slept upon the 
ground around the fire we had lit. The hard- 
ships of the long, monotonous marches were bad 
enough for we men to bear, but the women — 
who numbered about twenty, including several 
of noble birth, condemned to the mines as Ni- 
hilist conspirators — fared worst of all. 

One of them, Madame Marie Koutowzow, was 
a young widow I had met in society at St. Peters- 
burg. She told me that she had incurred the 


Or^ TRACKLESS SMOWS. 35 

special animosity of a tschinovnik^ or government 
official, by refusing to marry him, and he, anx- 
ious to avenge himself, had caused her arrest, 
and had heaped up the hardships which might 
hurry her out of life. Death had released three 
of these delicately nurtured ladies from their 
misery, and we had buried them, without coffin 
or religious ceremony, ere we reached Tobolsk. 

When at last we arrived at the latter town, we 
were lodged in the great convict prison, and 
allowed to rest for two days, after which we re- 
sumed our journey eastward to Tomsk, arriving 
there three weeks later, with our clothing in rags, 
and almost shoeless. 

Although our experiences had been terrible 
enough during our forced marches, the most hor- 
rible of all was our sojourn at the perisilni at 
Tomsk, the prison where exiles remain until 
their fate is decided upon by the authorities. 
The horrors of this den of vileness are indescrib- 
able. The kamera, or public cell, into which we 
were driven like cattle, was a long, low room, 
ill ventilated, and disgustingly dirty. Already 
there were fully fifty convicts in it, and the smell 
of humanity which greeted us as the great iron 
door was opened I shall never forget. When I 


36 


ON' TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


looked around and noted the dreadful groups, 
ragged, unkempt, unwashed, some lying on the 
sloping wooden shelves which formed the com- 
mon beds, others crouching on the filthy floor, I 
shuddered with horror, and was appalled. 

Amid this filth disease was rife, for no fewer 
than four men and two women were at that mo- 
ment dying of typhoid, while the body of a girl 
who had succumbed was lying unheeded in a 
corner. No notice whatever was taken of inva- 
lids by the officials, and I afterward learnt that 
this room, originally intended as an infirmary, 
had been converted into a common cell for the 
accommodation of the ever increasing crowds of 
exiles, twelve thousand of which pass through the 
prison annually. 

Coarse brown bread and tschi^ a kind of cab- 
bage soup, were our two articles of diet. The 
former was flung to us as to dogs, and owing to 
the rations never being sufficient to satisfy all, 
a fierce fight for a morsel of food invariably 
resulted. Ravenously hungry men struggled 
with one another to secure bread for their wives 
and children, who had voluntarily accompanied 
them into exile, while the friendless female exiles, 
too ill to move, were left in corners to die. 


ON mACA'LESS SA/01V3. 


37 


It was hardly surprising that Marie Koutow- 
zow, a refined and delicate woman, should be- 
come infected by the fever that was raging. 
Very soon she grew too ill to participate in the 
daily fight for food, and I obtained her rations 
for her. Lying upon one of the plank beds at 
the farther end of the kamera^ she bore the rav- 
ages of the disease bravely, praying that death 
might release her. Her desire was fulfilled, for 
six days after she had been attacked the fever 
proved fatal. 

For three whole days the body was allowed to 
remain in the crowded den of filth and vice. 
None of us dare complain. We knew too well 
that the reward for pointing out the fact to the 
officials would be an unceremonious knouting, 
for in Siberia the terrible lash is used at the 
slightest provocation. 

In the same ragged dress that I had worn dur- 
ing my three months’ tramp from European 
Russia, and which was insufficient to protect me 
from the intense cold, I was taken from the 
Dantean kamera at dawn one day and chained to 
a large gang of convicts. Then I learned what 
fate the authorities had decided for me. My 
sentence was subterranean hard labor at Kara, 


38 ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 

the most terrible mines in the whole of Si- 
beria ! 

To the exiles who had been my companions 
from St. Petersburg I bade farewell, and as one 
of a convoy of criminals of the most dangerous 
class, I left the forwarding prison and wearily 
dragged my chains across the endless waste of 
snow, en route for the dreaded district beyond 
Irkutsk. 

The thought that each step took me nearer to 
my living tomb rendered me desperate. Why 
should I, innocent of crime, be tortured to death 
in the same manner as murderers and hardened 
criminals? 

I resolved to endeavor to escape. It was a 
mad project, I admit, for there was but little 
chance of crossing the wastes of snow which 
stretched for four thousand miles before civiliza- 
tion could be reached. Nevertheless, I deter- 
mined to risk all. If I died in the snow, or was 
shot, it would end my miserable existence, and 
prevent further tortures being heaped upon me. 

In this frame of mind hope returned, and I 
walked on day after day, watching for a chance 
to carry my hazardous design into effect. After 
leaving Krasnoiarsk, the chains that bound us to 


ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


39 


one another were removed, and we were allowed 
to walk in groups. One day, while trudging 
along the road which leads to Irkutsk, we halted 
at a post station. The weather being intensely 
cold, the captain commanding the Cossacks 
sometimes allowed those of us who had money 
to purchase vodka. On this occasion, however, 
when we knocked at the door our summons 
remained unanswered. It was evident that the 
two men placed in charge of the low log house 
had gone to visit their neighbors, the nearest of 
whom were twenty versts distant ; so, after a 
further endeavor to open the door, we were com- 
pelled to resume our weary tramp. 

About ten versts farther on we encamped for 
the night on the border of a gloomy pine forest. 
It was. the first time we had slept near anything 
which would act as cover, therefore I resolved, 
when my comrades were asleep, to slip past the 
sentries, and make a dash for liberty. Tying my 
leg chain tighter to my waist to prevent it jing- 
ling, I threw myself down after eating my even- 
ing ration, and waited with breathless impatience. 

The minutes seemed hours, until at last the 
camp was hushed in slumber; then I carefully 
rose, while the Cossack sentry’s back was turned, 


40 


ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


and plunged swiftly and silently into the great, 
dark forest. 

It was an exciting moment. Every second I 
expected to hear the hue and cry raised, but as I 
gradually increased the distance between my 
captors and myself, it seemed as though my 
escape remained undiscovered. For an hour I 
walked in a straight line through the trees, and 
at length I doubled, in the hope of finding the 
post road I had left. My anticipations were re- 
alized, and during the remainder of the long, 
dark Siberian night, I sped along as fast as my 
tired legs would carry me over the road we had 
traveled on the previous day. 

The almost insurmountable obstacles to my 
escape never entered my head, so elated was I at 
the prospect of freedom. 

Dawn came, and the weak, yellow rays of the 
sun were struggling forth, when by chance I 
turned and looked behind me. 

What I saw caused me breathless terror and 
dismay. In the distance, looking like three 
black ants on the snowy horizon, were a trio of 
mounted Cossacks riding at full gallop. 

It was evident they had seen me ! 

I looked round for some means of conceal- 


^ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 41 

inent, but there was none. In the distance, 
about two versts away, I saw the deserted post- 
house which we had passed on the day previous. 
Without knowing what impelled me, I started 
running as hard as I could in that direction ; but 
as I glanced round from time to time, I saw the 
Cossacks were fast gaining upon me. 

They commanded me to stop, but I took no 
heed. Some superhuman strength seemed to 
possess me, and I ran swiftly and lightly over the 
snow toward the house. Gradually they drew 
nearer. Suddenly I heard the report of a gun, 
but, finding myself unhurt, I redoubled my 
pace. 

As the triumphant yells of the galloping Cos- 
sacks broke upon my ears, I gained the rear of 
the house and halted for a moment to discover 
some safe retreat. 

There was none. The doors were fastened as 
they had been on the day before. Not a mo- 
ment was to be lost, for already I heard the thud 
of the horses’ hoofs upon the snow. I had to 
choose between a brief life of horrible torture 
that would follow my recapture, and instant 
death ! 

I crossed myself and chose the latter! 


42 


ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


Glancing round wildly, I sought means of 
suicide. As I did so, the yelling soldiers, with 
revolvers drawn, came tearing round the side of 
the house. 

“Halt! or we’ll fire!” they cried. 

I looked determinedly into their faces. It was 
a case of life or death, and they were driving me 
to the latter. 

Before they could anticipate my intention, or 
level their weapons at me, I made a dash for a 
well, situated about twenty yards distant, shout- 
ing in my despair : 

“I’ll kill myself rather than go back!” 

A moment later I had jumped headlong into 
it. 

How long I remained in a state of semi-con- 
sciousness I have no idea. I remember lying 
silent and motionless, listening to the voices of 
the soldiers above, and scarce daring to breathe. 

“See!” cried one, “it’s useless to get him out. 
His neck is broken, or he could never be crushed 
into a heap like that.” 

The second man suggested that I might be 
merely stunned, but the third exclaimed : 

“He’s dead enough, poor devil! Why should 
we trouble ourselves to take him. out? Leave 


ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


43 


that work for the posthouse keeper when he 
returns.” 

“He was no fool, either,” observed the first 
man. “I should kill myself if I had the same 
choice.” 

Although the second man did not persist in 
his demand for my extrication, he fired his 
revolver down the well, afterward remounting 
and riding back with his companions. 

When I thought they had departed I rose, and 
to my intense delight found myself uninjured. 
The well being frozen, the ice was covered with a 
thick layer of snow, and this had considerably 
diminished the concussion of my fall. The Cos- 
sack’s bullet had not struck me, and beyond a 
bruise on my elbow I was none the worse for my 
reckless leap. 

At this moment I discovered that the chain 
used to draw up water was unwound from the 
windlass and suspended close to my hand. With 
an exclamation of joy I grasped it, and after 
ascertaining that it was fast at the top, quickly 
clambered to the surface and in a few moments 
stood again before the posthouse. 

Then the thought suggested itself that if I 
could effect an entrance I might discover food 


44 


ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


and clothing, as it was impossible for me to go 
far in a convict’s dress, with a yellow diamond 
upon the back, without being rearrested. I tried 
both doors, but they were securely fastened. 
After a search, however, I came across a long 
piece of iron in an outhouse, and with it con- 
trived to wrench off the latch of a window shut- 
ter. Afterward I broke open the double win- 
dows and clambered in. 

The one large room facing the road was a bare- 
boarded, dirty apartment, and, like all Siberian 
posthouses, devoid of any furniture beyond a 
plain deal table, a couple of rush-bottomed 
chairs, and a bench. In the center stood a large, 
round stove, while on the wall was a badly 
executed picture of the Virgin. There was some 
food upon the table, and the room bore evidence 
of recent occupation. 

As I passed into the sleeping apartment be- 
yond, I started and drew back in alarm, for lying 
upon the unclean straw mattress, fully dressed, 
and covered with a heavy fur overcoat, lay a 
man. His face was turned from me, and after a 
moment’s hesitation I shook him gently by the 
shoulder. 

He did not stir. 


ON TRACKLESS SNOWS. 


45 


I placed my hand upon his face, but drew it 
back instantly, for its contact thrilled me. It 
was icy cold ! The man was dead ! 

As I realized the truth, my eyes fell upon 
piece of paper lying upon the chair beside hii 
Taking it up, I read the following words, written 
in pencil in a feeble, shaky hand : 

\ 

“I shall die before you can return with medical 
aid. Send on the dispatches by a trusty messen- 
ger. You will be repaid. 

“Ivan Drukovitch.” 

On searching the body, I found the dispatches 
referred to secreted in the money belt around his 
waist. There were three official letters, secured 
by the Imperial seal, and addressed to General 
Serge Okoulow, Governor of the District of 
Kolymsk, the Arctic exile settlement in the 
province of Yakoutsk. With the letters I found 
about fiv^e hundred rubles in notes, and a passport 
which declared the bearer to be “Ivan Druko- 
vitch, messenger in the service of His Imperial 
Majesty the Tzar, on official business to the Gov- 
ernor of Kolymsk.” 

It did not take me long to decide what course 
to adopt. Divesting myself of my rags, which I 




46 ON TRA CKLESS . SNO IVS. 

put in the stove and set fire to, I attired myself 
in the dead man’s uniform and strapped the 
money belt with its contents around my waist, 
together with a revolver. After a brief search I 
discovered a file among the tools belonging to 
the posthouse keeper, and in half an hour had 
succeeded in freeing my ankles of the galling 
fetters. Getting out of the window, I went to 
the stable, where I found the courier’s horse, and 
having saddled it, I mounted and rode away in 
the direction the convoy had taken. 

, Fortunately, my head had not been shaved, as 
is usual with criminals entering upon the life 
sentence. The transformation from convict to 
Imperial messenger was complete. My official 
dress, with its brass double-headed eagle on the 
cap, was an effectual disguise. Just as it was 
growing dusk I overtook the convoy. As I 
saluted the officers they responded, and I rode 
past, inwardly chuckling, and soon left the sorry 
band of criminals far behind. 

Mine was a terribly lonely and monotonous 
journey. Instead of following the road to Ir- 
kutsk, I branched off and rode due north until I 
came to the mighty river Lena, afterward travel- 
ing along its bank a distance of seven hundred 


OiV TJiACJ^LESS S/VOtVS 


47 


English miles, until I reached Yakoutsk. Re- 
maining there for a couple of days, I again bade 
farewell to all human companionship, and set out 
for the terrible regions beyond the Arctic circle. 

From the first I recognized that it would be 
useless. to attempt to return to St. Petersburg by 
recrossing the Urals, for the passport was en- 
dorsed with dates so recent that if I presented it 
at the European frontier it would at once be dis- 
covered that I had not had time to travel to 
Kolymsk. This, combined with other various 
reasons, caused me to assume the role of courier 
and deliver the Tzar’s dispatches to the person 
to whom they were addressed. 

It is needless to refer in detail to my journey 
of 2500 versts from Yakoutsk across the great 
uninhabited desert, and over the moss-covered 
tundras, or Arctic swamps, to the most northerly 
exile settlement. Lonely and weary, I some- 
times rode for three and four days together with- 
out reaching a posthouse or seeing a single 
human being, and frequently I was in a half 
starved, half frozen condition. Time passed and 
I kept no count of it. My thoughts were only 
of eventual freedom. Having destroyed the 
note left by the dying man, together with my 


4 § 


ON- TRACJ^L^SS SNOUTS. 


convict’s rags, I knew the posthouse keeper 
would be puzzled at finding the corpse had been 
plundered, and as there was no telegraph to 
Yakoutsk, I was confident that I should not be 
forestalled by the news of the courier’s death. 

After an incessant journey, lasting nearly a 
month, I arrived at Sredne Kolymsk, a small 
town of log huts situated at a point far beyond 
the Arctic circle, where the deep river Ankudine 
flows into the Kolyma. The houses, scattered 
about in disorder, are inhabited by Cossacks, 
Mieshchany, Yakouts, and exiles. The highest 
erection is a log church, and the only curiosity 
a small wooden tower, crooked with age, which 
stands within the church inclosure, and was built 
by the conquerors of the country as a protection 
from raids of hostile tribes. The condition of 
the unfortunate exiles is terrible, even for 
Siberia. In this land, where winter commences 
in August and lasts till May, and where the tem- 
perature varies from nine degrees above freezing 
point to thirteen degrees below, man is utterly 
powerless. Only a handful of wretched savages 
inhabit the fearful region, having been driven to 
outer darkness by the tribes with more vitality 
and energy. 


dM Trackless SKdWS. 


4 ^ 


It takes about eighteen months to reach this 
extremity of the habitable globe, and by intro- 
ducing, as a part of the system, exile to the Arc- 
tic zone, the Russian government has over- 
stepped even their broad allowance of iniquity. 
This hamlet is a penitentiary colony for political 
exiles, whose punishment is purposely aggra- 
vated by physical suffering, and who are com- 
pelled to exist in a perpetual state of famine in 
dwellings that are simply wretched huts built of 
upright beams, with rafters laid across and cov- 
ered with layers of earth. From the government 
store musty rye flour is eked out to them at 
intervals, and for the rest, they subsist upon 
what fish they can catch in the river. 

I was not long in discovering General Okou- 
low’s residence, and, acting the role of Imperial 
messenger, delivered the dispatches in as ceremo- 
nious a manner as I could. As I had antici- 
pated, they contained- several pardons, and when 
this became known in the little colony I was 
feted and treated with every courtesy and kind- 
ness. Although such a reception was pleasant 
after the wearying monotony of the Verkho- 
yansk desert, yet I was anxious for an opportu- 
nity to shake the snow of Siberia from off my 


50 ON mAcriEss sNoivs. 

feet. Having waited several days, while the gov- 
ernor was preparing his reports for St. Peters- 
burg, I made a request — not without trepidation, 
I admit — that he should indorse my passport so 
as to enable me to go on a brief visit to my 
brother in Petropaulovsk before returning to 
Russia. To my joy, the accommodating gov- 
ernor saw no objection to this course, and with a 
light heart I set out at dawn on the following 
day toward the Stanovoi Mountains. 

Crossing them, I rode onward for four weeks 
through the wild gray mountains of Kamschatka, 
until my jaded horse sank and died of sheer 
exhaustion. Being compelled to perform the 
remainder of the terrible journey on foot, I 
walked by slow, weary stages across the great 
lone land, where nothing marked my route ex- 
cept the sun, and, the country being totally 
uninhabited, I had to eat grass and willow leaves 
for sustenance. Suddenly, .however, at the close 
of one dull, stormy day, I had the satisfaction of 
seeing, for the first time, the broad waters of the 
Pacific Ocean. 

Even when I had arrived at Petropaulovsk I 
had by no means eluded the police. The jour- 
ney to Kolymsk I had undertaken because I 


ON tracnles^ snows: 51 

recognized how extremely dangerous it ji^ould 
have been to travel to the coast with a passport 
which distinctly stated my route and destination. 
The police at Siberian ports are ever watchful for 
escaping convicts, and in my eagerness for free- 
dom it never occurred to me that information 
would be telegraphed to that extreme corner of 
the empire, of the theft of the dead man’s papers. 
This carelessness nearly resulted in disaster. 

It was late one afternoon 'when I descended 
the hill at the entrance to the town and passed 
along the quay. In doing so I noticed a ship 
anchored about a mile distant. Of a fisherman I 
casually inquired what the vessel was, and when 
she would sail. He replied that it was a Cana- 
dian sealer, and that it would sail on the morrow. 
During the remainder of the day I wandered 
about the dirty, wretched town in search of some 
means of escape. I had only twenty rubles 
left, but with these I intended to bribe some 
foreign sailor to let me embark as a stowaway. 

When it had grown dark and I was looking 
about for lodging for the night, I discovered, to 
my dismay, that I was being closely watched by 
a police spy. In order to allay suspicion, I 
sought the police bureau, and, entering boldly, 


ON' ^J^ACJ^LESS SmtVS. 


presented my passport. The ispravnik chanced 
to be there, and when he glanced at it a curious 
smile passed over his features. 

“The Imperial courier, Ivan Drukovitch, is 
dead,” he said, looking at me searchingly. 
“Consider yourself arrested!” 

I waited for no more. Ere he had uttered the 
last sentence, I had dashed out of the door and 
down the street. Half a dozen policemen were 
instantly in full cry after me, but in desperation 
I was determined not to be apprehended just as 
I was within an ace of securing my freedom. 
Exerting every muscle, I ran up and down the 
narrow streets until I suddenly found myself upon 
the quay. In the glimmering starlight my eyes 
caught sight of a moored boat. Without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation I jumped into it and cut the 
cord that held it. Before my pursuers could 
gain the waterside, the swift current had taken 
the boat down beside some great piles and I was 
effectually hidden in the darkness. 

It was an intensely exciting moment. 

I heard the hurrying footsteps pass close to 
where I was concealed, and listened to them 
receding in the distance. Then I breathed 
again. Taking the oars, and dreading lest I 


6n fRACttLkSS SNOW^. 

should be discovered, I pulled swiftly across the 
bay to the moored ship I had noticed in the 
afternoon. 

The captain, a genial, kind-hearted man, took 
compassion upon me when I had • related my 
story, and a few hours later I had the gratifica- 
tion of watching the twinkling lights of Petro- 
paulovsk disappear at the stern. 

Three weeks later I landed at Victoria, Van- 
couver, and after a short residence there was pro- 
vided with funds by our organization, and left 
en route for England. 


III. 

MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 

Few Londoners are aware that the headquar- 
ters of the most powerful secret organization in 
the world exist in their midst. The unsuspect- 
ing persons who pass up and down a certain 
eminently respectable thoroughfare in the north- 
west suburb, would be somewhat surprised if 
they knew that in one of the houses the Nihilist 
Executive Committee holds daily council and 
matures the plots which from time to time 
startle Europe. 

The thoroughfare, which, for obvious reasons, 
I shall designate as Mostyn Road, is formed of 
large, old-fashioned, detached houses which 
stand somewhat back with gardens in front. It 
is lined on each side by fine old elms, and the 
residences are for the most part built of red brick 
with those square, white-framed, unornamented 
windows of the Georgian era. The house in 
question is hidden from the quiet road by a high 
wall in which is a heavy wooden door, but inside 


54 


MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 55 

one finds a well-kept flower garden and a roomy 
old house which bears an unmistakable air of 
wealth and prosperity. Here exiles, whose 
escape from Siberia fortune has favored, find an 
asylum. 

In this house I took up my abode when I 
arrived in London. Smarting under the terrible 
punishment to which I had been unjustly sub- 
jected, I had long ago taken the oath, and 
thereby fettered myself body and soul to the 
Nihilist party. I was determined to revenge 
myself upon the oppressors who had starved my 
mother, knouted my sister, and sent my father 
to the mines, although all had been perfectly 
innocent of any crime. Thus, from a devil-may- 
care recruit I had developed into an ardent Ni- 
hilist whose sole ambition was to assist in the 
struggle for freedom, and who was prepared to 
go to any length in order to accomplish the 
object for which the organization was working. 

From an early age I had been taught English 
and French, being able now to speak both lan- 
guages almost as fluently as my own. This 
knowledge I found of the utmost service, inas- 
much as I had been selected by the Executive 
to perform certain special duties of espionage. 


56 MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 

They made no secret that the work would re- 
quire courage and tact, and that my life might 
sometimes be at stake, but I was as fearless as I 
was enthusiastic. 

After a six months’ residence in Mostyn Road, 
during which time I gained a knowledge of Lon- 
don life and made myself acquainted with the 
majority of those devoted to our cause, resident 
in the metropolis, the first matter was placed in 
my hands. 

A few months previously, Ivan Grigorovitch 
one of our party, had been chosen to convey 
some instructions to the St. Petersburg center. 
As he was well known to the secret police, he 
disguised himself as a French commercial trav- 
eler, and with a French passport journeyed from 
Marseilles to Odessa by steamer, intending to 
proceed thence to St. Petersburg, the ordinary 
routes from London being considered too dan- 
gerous. His intentions, however, were frus- 
trated, inasmuch as the Odessa police had been 
apprised of his advent and arrested him imme- 
diately on landing. A disaster resulted, for the 
papers found upon him were compromising, the 
plot was discovered, and wholesale arrests were 
made in St. Petersburg in consequence. 


MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 57 

Twenty-three persons of both sexes were tried 
in secret, and, according to the Novosti news- 
paper, the evidence given against them by Prin- 
cess Stratonovski caused life sentences to be 
passed upon each of them. 

From facts that came to our knowledge, it was 
evident that someone who had learned our secret 
had divulged it to the police, therefore, the five 
men forming the Nihilist Executive Committee 
— who will in future be known as Paul Petroff, 
Alexander Grinevitch, Nicolas Tersinski, Isaac 
Bounakoff, and Dmitri Irteneff — sat in council 
and condemned the princess to death. 

We cast dice and it fell to me to carry out the 
sentence ! 

The cool, flippant manner in which my fellow- 
conspirators spoke of murder awed me. They 
noticed my scruples and pointed out that the 
princess had, by giving false evidence, been in- 
strumental in the deportation of more than 
twenty innocent persons, therefore she must die. 
As I had taken an oath to carry out all com- 
mands of the Executive, under penalty of death, 
I was compelled to obey. 

I had not far to search for Madame the Prin- 
cess, for she was residing temporarily in London, 


58 MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 

having taken a furnished flat at Albert Hall Man- 
sions, overlooking Hyde Park. 

In the stalls at the Avenue Theater I first 
obtained an uninterrupted view of her. She was 
seated next to me, a fair form in a black evening 
dress that revealed her delicate chest and arms, 
with a gleaming diamond necklet around her 
throat. Her age was about twenty-four, and her 
perfect oval face had a shade of sadness upon 
it, notwithstanding the great languishing violet 
eyes, and the tender winning mouth, while her 
fair hair had been deftly coiled, and was fastened 
with a diamond star that flashed and sparkled 
with a thousand fires. In short, I thought her 
the most lovely woman I had ever seen. 

And I was plotting to kill her! 

I gazed into her face, entranced by her marvel- 
ous beauty. Toying with her fan, she turned 
her eyes full upon me, and the faintest flush 
suffused her cheek; then she made pretense of 
reading her programme, and afterward became 
interested in the performance. When I went out 
to smoke during the entracte I passed her, and 
in doing so uttered an apology in Russian, to 
which she responded in the same lajiguage, with 
a kindly smile. 


MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 59 

According to information I had obtained, she 
was the wife of Prince Stratonovski, a noble in 
the third degree, some twenty years her senior. 
Their marriage had been fraught with much un- 
happiness, and after a year they agreed to sep- 
arate. Since that time the prince had remained 
at his gloomy old palace near Markovka in Little 
Russia, while his wife, accompanied by an old 
man-servant and her maid, had resided for brief 
periods in St. Petersburg, Paris, and London. 

Since her arrival in England it was apparent 
that she was fulfilling some mission as a Russian 
agent, yet the suspicion she excited in some 
quarters in no way hindered her from obtaining 
social influence, and she dispensed hospitality to 
a very select circle. She went everywhere, and 
her daily doings were chronicled in the personal 
columns of the newspapers. I had been watch- 
ing her for several days, and on this evening had 
followed her to the theater in order, if possible, 
to become acquainted with her. 

When the curtain descended and we rose to 
leave I turned, and said to her in Russian : 

“You are alone, madame. Will you permit 
me to find your carriage?” 

“Thanks, you are very kind,” she said in Eng- 


6o MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 

lish, with a pretty hesitating accent. “My man 
has buff livery.” 

“And the name, madarne?” 

“Princess Stratonovski,” she replied, adding, 
“we are compatriots, are we not, m’sieur?” 

“Yes,” I replied smiling. “It is always pleas- 
ant to meet Russians in a foreign land,” at the 
same time handing her a card which gave my 
name as Vladimir Mordvinoff, and my address at 
a suite of furnished chambers I rented in Shaftes- 
bury Avenue. 

A few moments later I handed her into her 
carriage, and as she thanked me and drove away, 
I walked, morose and thoughtful, up Northum- 
berland Avenue toward my rooms. 

During the week that followed we met several 
times. She showed herself in no way averse to 
my companionship, for she told me that she was 
always at home on Thursdays and would be 
pleased to see me. This invitation I accepted, 
and thus I became a frequent visitor. 

The guests had departed. 

In the fading light of a summer s evening the 
princess and I were together in her pretty draw- 
ing room that overlooked the Park. As she 


MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 6i 

stood at the window with the last ray of sunlight 
falling upon her she looked daintily bewitching. 

I admit that I loved her madly, passionately. 
Overwhelmed by the contemplation of her 
beauty, enchanted by the - magic of her voice, 
which made the sweetest music out of the merest 
phrases, I thought of naught but her, and was 
only happy when at her side. Yet when I 
remembered the difference in our social position, 
and her marriage with the prince, I was almost 
beside myself with despair, for I knew that mine 
was an adoration that could only end in unhappi- 
ness. 

, Involuntarily my hand touched my pocket and 
struck something hard. I drew it away in hor- 
ror. What terrible irony of fate ! The woman I 
loved dearer than life, was doomed to die by my 
hand ! 

She had been gazing dreamily out of the win- 
dow, when suddenly with a mischievous smile 
she exclaimed : 

“You are very silent, m’sieur." 

I scarcely know what prompted me, but, 
jumping up quickly, and grasping her tiny hand, 
I raised it to my lips and poured forth the 
declaration of my love. 


62 MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 

She trembled. Her breath came and went in 
short, quick gasps, but she did not attempt to 
arrest the flood of passionate words which 
escaped me. Ere I had concluded, my heart was 
filled with joy, for I saw my passion was not 
unreciprocated. 

Vainly striving to overcome her emotion, she 
exclaimed excitedly : 

“I — I was unprepared — I did not think you 
have love for me, Vladimir. Do you doubt I 
love you? Have you not seen it? Mon Dieu ! 
my married life has been wretched enough. I 
have loved no man until I met you !” 

“Do you really care for me, princess?” I asked, 
scarcely believing the truth. 

“To you I am Irene,” she said in her pretty 
broken English. “All my life has been wasted 
hitherto. You have asked me; I have given you 
answer. I love only you. Some day you will 
know me better. Now, you know me only for 
the great passion I bear for you. But yourself 
shall make satisfy of my career, my truth, my 
honor, and — and I shall get — what you call — 
divorce from Prince Stratonovski, and we two 
will marry. Of you I ask not one single ques- 
tion. You are my lover, the only man I 


MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 63 

have cared for, and — and in return I am your 
serf.” V 

And she buried her flushed face upon my 
shoulder and sobbed. 

Taking her in my arms, I swore to her ever- 
lasting constancy. All my heart was in the 
declaration. In the glamour of that hour we 
were reckless and egotistical as most lovers, 
heedless of the shadow that was growing up 
behind the sunshine of our happy vows of undy- 
ing affection. 

When she grew calm, she looked up search- 
ingly into my eyes and said: “You cannot 
unde^tand me. You do not know the tragedy 
of my life.” 

“No, Irene. Tell me about yourself,” I said. 

Hesitatingly she seated herself in a plush- 
covered wicker chair, and motioned me to a seat 
at her side. 

“No, no,” I said, laughing. “At your feet, 
princess ; always at your feet,” and, casting myself 
upon a low footstool, took her tiny hand in mine. 

“My life has been wasted,” she said mourn- 
fully. “My mother was French; my father an 
Imperial Councilor of Russia. My earlier life 
was passed at Moscow, and afterward at the 


64 MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 

court at St. Petersburg. I was forced by my 
father to marry Prince Stratonovski, who, as you 
are well aware, is rich and powerful. But, ma 
foi ! from the first he treated me cruelly. Within 
six months of our marriage he commenced to ill- 
use me brutally; indeed, I bear upon my body 
the scars of his violence. The world was debon- 
naire while I was triste and downcast, for I 
found he had a liaison with a French danseuse. 
I bore his insults and blows until I was in fear of 
my life ; then I came here.” 

“How could he be so cruel?” I cried in indig- 
nation. 

“Ah, I have not told all, Vladimir,” she said 
with a sorrowful sigh. “The prince plotted with 
his friend. Count Nekhlindoff, in order to obtain 
a divorce, but I thwarted his vile scheme. 
Nekhlindoff tried to compromise me, but I 
repelled his advances, for although I have so far 
abandoned my marriage vow as to love you 
while I am still wedded, I have done nothing by 
which my husband can obtain the freedom he 
seeks. Since I left Markovka I have wandered 
about, to Paris, Vienna, Brussels, with no pro- 
tection against the dishonorable conspiracy. I 
grew tired of life — I ” 


• MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 


65 


“You have a protector in me,” I interrupted. 

“Ah, yes, my love,” she exclaimed, stroking 
my hair tenderly, and bending to kiss me upon 
the forehead. “Though I have been in the 
midst of luxury and gayety, my life has been 
dark and dreary. But happiness has now re- 
turned.” 

“It gives me joy to hear you speak like this, 
Irene,” I said. “Nothing will, I hope, occur to 
part us, or cause our love to be less stronger 
than it is at this moment.” 

“What can?” she asked quickly, raising her 
eyebrows. “We trust one another. I have 
money enough for both. What more?” 

The horrible thought that the poniard in my 
pocket must sooner or later be plunged into her 
heart, flashed across my mind, causing me to 
shudder and gasp for breath. 

“No,” I replied with a feigned laugh, “I — it is 
only a foolish fancy on my part. My joy seems 
almost too perfect to be lasting.” 

“I am yours; you are mine,” she said passion- 
ately. “We shall marry and live together always 
as happy as we are to-day.” 

Twilight had faded, and it had grown almost 
dark. I had risen and was standing beside her 


66 MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 

chair, bending and kissing her soft cheek, when 
suddenly the door opened and the maid entered 
to light the lamps. 

''Pardon, Madame la Princesse," exclaimed the 
girl, “I thought you had gone out.” 

“No, Nina, I shall not go out to-night,” said 
her mistress. “Tell cook that M’sieur Mordvi- 
noff will remain and dine.” 

When the maid had lit the lamps and de- 
parted, I returned to where the princess sat, and 
noticed how her face had changed. Instead of 
the cold, haughty expression, her flushed coun- 
tenance beamed with tender, womanly love, an 
expression that was supremely fascinating. As I 
stood admiring her, a morbid fancy crept over 
me. Why should I not take her life now she 
was in the zenith of her happiness? It would be 
better so, I argued ; better than allowing her 
passion to develop and overwhelm me. 

I was too well aware that the violation of my 
oath would mean death to me as well as to her, 
and as I stood behind her chair I placed my 
hand upon the hilt of the knife in my pocket and 
half drew it from its sheath. 

But I could not bring myself to commit the 
crime. Drawing a long breath, I pushed the 


MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. . 67 

keen blade into its leather case with a firm de- 
termination to overcome my thoughts, and again 
seating myself upon the stool at her feet, con- 
tinued talking of our plans for the future. 

A fortnight later I was summoned before a 
meeting of the Executive. 

“We understand,’’ exclaimed Petroff, the presi- 
dent of the council, “that you hesitate to cany 
out the sentence of death upon the Princess 
Stratonovski. Why?” 

I glanced round at the pale, determined faces 
of the five revolutionists who were sitting at 
a table in the well-furnished dining room in 
Mostyn Road. 

”I — I want time,” I stammered. 

“Time! You have already had three months. 
We are well aware that you admire her, but she 
must not escape. Remember the oath you took 
upon this knife,” and he pointed to a long bright 
dagger which lay unsheathed on the table before 
him. “The Executive have decided that the 
traitress must die. If she escapes, you will pay 
the penalty with your own life. We trust in you.” 

In a frenzy of mad despair I walked the Lon- 


MV FRiEMD, THE PRINCESS. 

don streets one day a week later, seeking some 
means by which to avert the death of the woman 
I loved. The decree of the Executive was irrev- 
ocable. Their terrible vengeance is known 
throughout the world, and it is their proud boast 
that of those whom they condemned to death 
not one has ever escaped. 

After wandering aimlessly for many hours, my 
footsteps led me involuntarily to Albert Hall 
Mansions. 

It was late in the evening, somewhere about 
ten o’clock, when the old servant Ivan admitted 
me. As I entered the drawing room she did not 
at first observe my presence, and I stood for a 
few moments watching her. She wore a charm- 
ing evening costume of cream net relieved by 
amber ribbons, and was reclining in an armchair, 
reading a novel. The mellow light of the shaded 
lamp fell upon her fair head, pillowed on the 
satin cushion, and her whole attitude was one of 
peace and repose. She held a lighted cigarette 
between her fingers. 

Suddenly my movement startled her. 

“Ah! Vladimir! Quel plaisir ! she cried, 
tossing aside her book and rising to bid me wel- 
come. “All day I have expected you.” 


My friend, the Princess. 69 

After kissing her upturned face I sank into a 
chair without a word. 

“What ails you?” she asked in alarm, noticing 
my pale face and mud-bespattered clothes. 
“You — you are ill. Tell me,” 

“It’s nothing,” I assured her, striving to smile. 
“A slight faintness, that’s all.” 

Accepting the explanation, she reseated her- 
self and we commenced to chat. Of what we 
said I have no recollection. I know that when 
she lifted my hand to her lips I drew it away as 
if I had been ^tung. She was caressing the hand 
that was soon to take her life ! The thought 
was horrifying. 

She was at a loss to understand the meaning 
of my action. 

“You are not well to-night, Vladimir,” she said 
half reproachfully. 

”No, no. Princess,'’ I replied, “I’m well enough 
in health. It is the knowledge of our love that 
troubles me.” 

“Of our love? Why so?” 

I cast her hand aside, and jumping to my feet, 
paced the room in frantic distraction. She. 
clutched my arm, entreating me to tell her the cause 
of my agitation. Suddenly I stopped before her. 


70 


MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 


“Princess,” J whispered hoarsely, grasping her 
slim, white wrist, “hear me! I am base, ignoble; 
I have deceived you !” 

“What! You love me not — you ” 

“I love you better than life. I would do any- 
thing to save you, yet, by a devilish vagary of 
Fate, I am compelled to kill you !” 

“Kill me!” she gasped. ''Dieu! You are 
imbecile — mad !” 

Her face blanched ; she tottered and almost fell. 

“Yes, I was mad,” I said bitterly. “Mad to 
love you when I knew that I must kill you. I 
am a Nihilist !” 

“A Nihilist!” 

“Yes. By your evidence some members of 
our organization have been sent to Siberia, and 
the sentence the Executive has passed upon you 
is death.” 

“Ah!” she cried wildly. “It is the statement 
in the Novosti. Listen, Vladimir !” Pausing to 
gain breath, she shuddered at the sight of the 
long, keen knife that I had drawn and held in 
my hand. “It was a vile lie concocted by my 
husband in order that the Nihilist vengeance 
should fall upon me. When Count Nekhlindoff’s 
plot failed, he resorted to this scheme, and got 


MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 


71 


some journalist he knew to insert the libelous 
statement, well knowing that I should not escape 
death.” 

“Is the allegation untrue, then?” I asked in 
astonishment. 

“Yes. I swear it is. At the time of the trial 
I was at Odessa with the Archduchess Paul, and 
was perfectly ignorant of everything until I saw 
the paragraph. I wrote contradicting it, but 
they did not publish my letter. It was the 
prince who desired that the organization should 
remove me and leave him free.” 

“I accept your explanation. Princess,” I said, 
“yet how am I to save you? By my oath I am 
bound to obey the mandate of our Circle and 
compass your death.” 

“I am innocent, Vladimir. Is it that I die?” 
she asked, glancing apprehensively at the knife 
that flashed so ominously in . the lamplight. 
“Can I not have time — time to prepare for 
death?” 

“How long?” 

“Three days, or more. Mon Dieu! I shall not 
try to escape. I swear.” 

“Very well,” I replied in a low voice. “It is 
agreed. Three days.” 


72 


MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 


Bidding her a strained, sorrowful farewell, I 
left her. 

At eight o’clock on the evening of the third 
day the door of the flat was flung open by Ivan 
in response to my summons. 

‘'is Madame the Princess at home?” I asked 
of the grave-faced old man. 

*‘Alas, m’sieur,” he replied in a grief-stricken 
voice, ‘‘madame is dead.” 

“Dead!” I gasped. “When did she die?” 

“She — she has been murdered !” he exclaimed 
in an awed tone. “I discovered her body an 
hour ago. The doctor and police are now in her 
room.” 

I rushed along the hall to the apartment, in 
which I heard low voices. It was a large, well- 
furnished bedchamber, dimly illuminated by two 
candles. Upon a couch near the window lay the 
body of the princess attired in a white cashmere 
wrap, the breast of which was stained with 
blood. 

Heedless of the doctor and two police inspect- 
ors who were conversing together, I went over to 
the body and gazed upon it. 

What I saw amazed me. I staggered, yet by 


MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 73 

presence of mind managed to conceal my agita- 
tion. 

The fair, handsome face of the princess had 
been slashed with the knife in the form of a 
cross, and the blood gave it a terribly ghastly 
appearance. 

The cut was the distinguishing mark which 
Nihilists set upon the faces of traitors! 

Something bright in the hands of one of the 
police officers attracted my attention. He was 
examining it by the light of the candles as I 
peered over his shoulder. 

It was a dagger which, in an instant, I recog- 
nized as mine ! 

I felt in my pocket. The sheath was there, 
but the weapon had gone ! I was dumfounded. 
I had been forestalled, and the princess had been 
murdered with the knife stolen from me! . 

The officer, after questioning me, took my 
assumed name and address, explaining that I 
should be required at the inquest. 

In reply to my inquiries, Ivan told me that the 
princess, intending to leave for Paris on the mor- 
row, had sent Nina, her maid, on in advance to 
secure her rooms. At six o’clock, while in the 
dining room, he heard the outer door slam, and 


74 MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 

concluded that his mistress had gone out. An 
hour later he entered the bedroom and discov- 
ered the crime. 

The Executive sat on the following evening 
and I attended to make my report. It was a 
mere formality, for the papers were full of the 
mysterious crime. 

“Princess Stratonovski is removed,” I said 
briefly, when interrogated by P^troff. 

“Thanks to the assistance of Dmitri,” he 
added, with a smile. 

“Irteneff!” T repeated, glancing at th*e dark, 
middle-aged man indicated, who sat with his 
elbows leaning upon the table. 

“Yes,” he said laughing, “I knew how diffi- 
cult it is to assassinate the woman one loves, so I 
assisted, you.” 

At the inquest I identified the body, while 
Ivan related his brief story. Twice the inquiry 
was adjourned, and subsequently a verdict was 
returned that the princess had been murdered by 
“some person or persons unknown.” The prince 
was communicated with by telegraph, but he 
took ho notice, and at the funeral Ivan and I 
were the only mourners. 


MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 75 

The police could discover no clew to the assas- 
sin, and thus another was added to London’s 
long list of unfathomable mysteries. 

One day, about six weeks after the funeral, I 
received a note from Ivan, asking me to meet 
him at half-past seven that evening under the 
railway arch adjoining the Charing Cross Station 
of the Underground Railway. 

Thinking that he might have something of im- 
portance to tell me, I kept the appointment. 
The road which runs under the bridge is not too 
well lit, and the spot is rather quiet about that hour. 

Big Ben had just struck the half hour, when I 
felt a slight pressure on my arm, and heard my 
Christian name uttered. 

Turning quickly, I confronted a female figure 
enveloped in a traveling cloak, and wearing a 
soft felt hat, and a veil through which the fea- 
tures were recognizable in the lamplight. 

It was the Princess Stratonovski ! 

“Irene!” I cried, “is it really you?” 

“Yes. I am no apparition,” she replied with a 
laugh. “But no one must see me. Let us walk 
this way.” 

In a few moments we were strolling under the 
trees on the Embankment. 


76 


MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 


“It was quite simple/' she said, in reply to my 
eager questions. “ I always was a little inventa- 
tif. You remember that on the night you told 
me of my doom you found me alone reading? 
Well, that night Nina was ill, and I had been 
attending her. I did not call a doctor, as I had 
no idea that she suffered from a weak heart. 
She died, poor girl, at six o’clock on the night 
you had promised to return. Then a thought 
occurred to me that, as her hair was the same 
color as my own, I might pass off her body as 
mine. I took Ivan into my confidence, telling 
him of the attempt which would be made upon 
my life ’’ 

“You did not mention my name?’’ I said anx- 
iously. 

“Of course not. After I had dressed the body 
in one of my own wraps, we carried it to my 
room and placed it upon the couch. Nina was 
about my build, therefore I attired myself in her 
clothes, and taking the most valuable of my 
jewels, left at eight o’clock for Paris. Mean- 
while Ivan remained. From what he has told 
me it appears that he watched and saw a middle- 
aged man enter the flat by means of a latch key. 
Aft^r searching several rooms went into my 


MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 77 

bedroom. There the man saw a female form 
whom he thought was me, and stabbed it to the 
heart. This occurred within half an hour of 
Nina’s death.” 

“And it was the mutilation of the face that 
prevented me from discovering that it was Nina,” 
I remarked. 

“Exactly. Yet nj> crime has been committed, 
and I have escaped.” 

“Wonderful, Princess!” I exclaimed, aston- 
ished at the curious combination of circum- 
stances. 

“The prince thinks me dead ; therefore I am a 
free woman,” she said as we walked up Villiers 
Street. “I am no longer princess, but Madame 
Valakhina. I still love you, Vladimir, but I can 
see it is useless, for if we met often the Nihilists 
would discover how they have been tricked. I 
must therefore leave you. To-night I go to 
Brussels, and afterward to Yvoir, on the Meuse, 
where I have taken a villa. Ivan is there 
already. When you can safely leave London, 
come and see me.” 

We had ascended the steps and entered the 
Charing Cross terminus.- The hands of the great 
clock pointed to five minutes to eight, 


78 


MV FRIEND, THE PRINCESS. 


“See,” she added, “I must go to the carriage. 
The train leaves at eight.” 

We walked along the platform and she entered 
an empty first-class compartment, into which a 
porter had already put her dressing-case. 

When the man had taken his tip and departed, 
I said: 

“Farewell, Princess.” 

My heart was too full to say more. 

“No, no, Vladimir. Not farewell,” she sobbed, 
her large violet eyes wet with tears. ''Au 
revoir. We shall meet again some day.” 

And, as the Continental train moved slowly 
out of the station, she kissed her tiny hand to 
me and again murmured: 

''A u revoir / ” 


IV. 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 

The secret police attached to the Russian Em- 
bassy in London are ever watchful and untiring 
in their efforts to discover the plans and move- 
ments of our party. It is, therefore, our con- 
stant endeavor to lead them upon false scents 
and direct their attention to quarters in opposi- 
tion to that in which we are working. 

No monarch possesses such a prodigious or- 
ganization of police spies as the Tzar. His emis- 
saries are in every European city, and it must be 
admitted that for cunning and astuteness they 
are unequaled. Attached to each embassy is 
the Okramioie Otdelenie^ or “Security Section,” 
consisting of some twenty or thirty detectives 
whose duty it is to closely watch political sus- 
pects, and forward elaborate reports of their 
movements to General Sekerzhinski, chief of the 
department at St. Petersburg. 

The stratagems practiced by these agents, and 
their insolence, are unbounded. In smaller 
states, such as Bulgaria, Roumania, Switzerland, 


79 


8 o the burlesque of death. 

and Italy, both law and political decency are 
violated, and these men act as if they were in a 
Russian provincial town. No one in the Balkan 
Peninsula doubts that the two Bulgarians who 
attempted to assassinate Mantoff, the Prefect of 
Rustchuk, when he was so imprudent as to go to 
Bucharest, were the tools of Yakobson, the third 
secretary of the Russian Embassy in Roumania. 
Again, it was proved that they offered people 
bribes to clandestinely introduce implements for 
false coining into the lodgings of a well-known 
literary man, the Russian refugee, Cass-Dobro- 
geanu. In dozens of cases attempts have been 
made — often successfully — to introduce bombs 
and explosives into the houses of Russian sus- 
pects abroad in order that they may be accused 
and imprisoned, thus removing their revolution- 
ary ' influence. After a recent trial in Paris, 
where six men were condemned to long terms of 
imprisonment for having dynamite in their pos- 
session, it was proved most conclusively that into 
the houses of four of them the explosive had 
been introduced by persons bribed by a provo^ 
eating agent of the Tzar’s government ! 

It is well known in our circle that in the be- 
ginning of the last decade Colonel Soudeikin, the 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 8i 

t’'hen chief of spies and provocating agents in St. 
Petersburg, proposed to his principal confidential 
agent — afterward his murderer — Decayeff, in 
order to strengthen his reputation in revolution- 
ary circles, that he should murder an unimpor- 
tant fellow-spy, P / first exposing him to the 

revolutionists. “Of course,” remarked Soudei- 
kin, “it is hard on him, but what can one do? 
You must gain their confidence in some way, and 
in any case P will never be good for any- 

thing.” Indeed, the man referred to was already 
suspected of being a spy, and all the revolution- 
ists were on their guard against him. 

At such a level of morality the prospect of a 
“paying job” is sufficient to inspire the agents 
of the Russian “State police” with a spirit of 
boundless enterprise. The advantage thus 
gained by the Russian government is enormous; 
provocation is the surest way to give false im- 
pressions about the Russian patriots and to ter- 
rorize foreign public opinion to the detriment of 
the liberation movement. 

Recently the foreign branch of the “higher 
police” has been strengthened and remodeled. 
In London the section now works independently. 
Paris has been constituted the center from which 


82 THE BJjRLESQUk OF DBATH, 

operations in other towns are superintended ; 
then come the university towns, as Montpellier, 
Zurich, and Berne, and the towns specially fre- 
quented by Russians, as Mentone. From Paris 
“flying brigades” of spies and provocators are 
sent out to places where “special activity” is 
required. The staff of employees has been “re- 
newed,” and the numbers greatly augmented. 
As an instance, no fewer than six new agents 
were sent from Russia immediately after the 
assassination of General Seliverstroff by Pad- 
lewski in Paris. 

More attention is bestowed upon London than 
elsewhere, because it has become known that 
many of the foremost Terrorists reside in the 
English metropolis. The satellites of the “Se- 
curity Section” are, however, baffled by the 
watchfulness of our own spies, and unable to 
make much progress with their inquiries owing 
to the traps we lay for them. Indeed, finding 
their activity counteracted, they have decided to 
found in London some kind of Russian institu- 
tion, which by its artistic and literary attractions 
shall induce Russians living in the metropolis to 
visit it ; the aim being to facilitate the obtaining 


THE BUrLES(^VE op bPATlt. S3 

of information and the choice of future victims 
for provocation. 

At the time the events related in this story 
occurred, the Executive had resolved upon deci- 
sive action. 

As a protest against the increasing tyranny of 
Tzardom, it had been decided that a grand coup 
should be made at the Winter Palace at St. 
Petersburg, where two members of our organiza- 
tion were engaged as servants in the Imperial 
household. News of the plot was conveyed 
secretly to the various circles on the Continent, 
while we in London set about arranging the 
various details. 

To Nicolas Tersinski, who lived in Heygate 
Street, Walworth, was the work of manufactur- 
ing a dynamite clock intrusted. He had been a 
locksmith in Warsaw and was skilled in mechan- 
ical contrivances. It was he who made the 
bombs which wrecked the Tzar’s train near Grod- 
no, and to his ingenuity the machines that had 
caused several “outrages” were due. 

While these preparations were in progress, it 
was of course highly essential that our secret 
should be strictly guarded and that our ubiqui- 


84 THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 

tous enemies, the police spies, should entertain 
no suspicion of our intentions. Nevertheless, we 
were one day amazed and startled to discover 
that the “Security Section” had suddenly grown 
more active than usual, and that there were un- 
mistakable signs that they had gained some 
knowledge of the conspiracy. 

The Executive held a hurried meeting to con- 
sider the best means of averting the espionage. 
I was still living expensively as a young man 
about town, and, as I rarely visited the house in 
Mostyn Road, my connection with the revolu- 
tionists was unknown to the police. For this 
reason I was chosen, together with Grinevitch, 
to assist in the work of shadowing the spies in 
order that P^troff and the committee might com- 
plete their plans and get the machine safely to 
St. Petersburg. 

The work was exciting, adventurous, and some- 
what risky; but it suited my devil-may-care 
spirit. The daring with which our organization 
acted inspired me with confidence, and I went 
about fearlessly, attired in various garbs, and 
tracked the minions of the Tzar into all sorts of 
queer corners of London. They were indefatiga- 
ble; but owing to our headquarters in Mostyn 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. S5 

Road being temporarily abandoned, they were 
entirely off the scent. It was my object to 
further puzzle them, and, ^assisted by half a 
dozen other members of the party, I think I 
succeeded. 

Meanwhile the clock was being completed, and 
the plans for the cotip elaborated. 

While sitting one evening at a small table in 
the Caf^ Royal in Regent Street smoking, sip- 
ping kiimmel, and lazily scanning the Petit Jour- 
nal, a word in guttural Russian addressed to the 
waiter caused me to glance across to a tall, dark 
man in evening dress, who had seated himself 
alone and unnoticed at the other side of the 
table opposite me. A momentary glance was 
sufficient for me to recognize in him the original 
of a photograph which had been given me, and 
pointed out as Guibaud, the renowned French 
detective, who had recently been placed at the 
head of the “Security Section” in London. 

He was lighting his cigar and flashing the 
great diamond ring upon his finger, when I sud- 
denly asked him for the lighted match for my 
cigarette. By that means I opened a common- 
place conversation, and I quickly felt confident 
that he had no suspicion that I was a Terrorist. 


86 


burlesque oe death. 


After spending nearly an hour together, and 
drinking at each other’s expense, we strolled to 
Oxford Circils, where we parted, not, however, 
before we had exchanged cards, he giving me 
one with the name “Jules Guibaud,” while upon 
mine was inscribed the words “Pierre Noirel, 
National Liberal Club.” He told me that he 
was a glove merchant in the Rue de la Paix, 
Paris, while I made him believe that I was a 
young Belgian of independent means, who was 
living in England for the purpose of acquiring 
the language. 

On wishing him “good-night,” I jumped into 
an omnibus which was going in the direction of 
the Marble Arch ; but as soon as the conveyance 
had traveled about five hundred yards, I alighted 
and followed the astute chief spy, who was then 
retracing his steps down Regent Street. Event- 
ually I discovered that he resided in Russell 
Square, Bloomsbury, and from that evening I 
haunted him like a shadow, in order to obtain an 
insight into his methods. I quickly ascertained 
how closely, day and riight, the prominent mem- 
bers were being watched, not only by the Rus- 
sian police, but by detectives from Scotland 
Yard, whose aid they had invoked. Guibaud 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 87 

and I met on several occasions, and always as 
friends. 

One afternoon when I call^ at the house of 
Isaac Bounakoff in Aspland Grove, Hackney, to 
which our headquarters had been temporarily 
transferred, Petroff made a statement that caused 
me amazement and dismay. Notwithstanding 
our precautions, the spies had discovered Tersin- 
ski’s house in Walworth, and were watching it. 
Isaac had recognized one of the “Security Sec- 
tion” men standing at the corner of the street. 
He had completed the machine, and was anxious 
to remove it to a place of safety before search 
was made by the English police. It was imper- 
ative that the incriminating object should be got 
out of the house without delay, and after some 
discussion the task of removing it devolved upon 
me, Grinevitch volunteering to assist. 

Returning at once to my chambers, I con- 
trived, by the aid of a gray wig and the contents 
of my “make-up ” box, to assume the appearance 
of an elderly man. Attiring myself in a seedy 
suit, I donned an apron which I rolled up around 
my waist, so that when, an hour later, I alighted 
from an omnibus in the Walworth Road, I pre- 
sented the appearance of a respectable mechanic. 


88 the burlesque of death. 

It was now quite dark, and, as I turned down the 
quiet street, I met an ill-clad man sauntering up 
and down, smoking a short clay pipe. The light^ 
of a street lamp fell upon his features, which I 
recognized as those of Guibaud. He gave me a 
sharp, inquiring glance, but was unsuspicious; 
therefore I walked on until I came before Tresin- 
ski’s house — an eight-roomed dwelling, with area 
and basement of the usual South London type. 
Then I looked round suddenly, and seeing that 
his back was turned, darted up the steps leading 
to the front door, and let myself in quietly with 
the latchkey. 

The unfamiliar interior was pitch dark,- and I 
was afraid to strike a match lest the detective’s 
attention might be attracted. Groping my way 
carefully up the stairs, 1 ascended to Tersinski’s 
workshop on the top floor, where he had told me 
I should find the box. 

After a few moments’ search I found it standing 
under a bench near the window. Handling it 
with the utmost care — for it was already charged 
with a sufficient quantity of dynamite to wreck 
the whole street — I drew it forth and found it 
had the appearance of a small, black tin deed 
box, with handles at each end, while upon the 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 89 

side the name “F. Evans’' had been painted in 
white capitals. ^ 

I was just bending to lift it from the ground, 
when I was startled at feeling myself seized from 
behind. 

“Ah! You are my prisoner!” cried a voice, 
which, in a moment, I had recognized as that of 
Guibaud, who had evidently followed me into 
the house. 

At first both my arms seemed pinioned, but it 
was not for long. In a few seconds I had recov- 
ered my breath, wrested my right arm free, and 
drawn my revolver. 

It flashed across my mind that we were alone, 
and that it was imperative I should overpower him. 

“Let me go, curse you!” I cried in French. 
“I give you warning that, if you don’t. I’ll fire 
into that box and blow you to the devil.” 

“Do it,” he replied. “You would die too. I 
arrest you for the manufacture of explosives.” 

“Don’t make too sure of your prey,” I said, at 
the same time taking him off his guard, and free- 
ing myself by dint of a great effort. 

In the dim uncertain light, I saw something 
lying upon the bench, and snatched it up. It 
was a hanimer, 


90 THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 

hissed Guibaud, “you shall not escape, 
now I have caught you in this trap,” and his 
dark form darted forward. 

I was only just in time. Raising the hammer, 
I brought it down with a crushing blow upon his 
skull. 

Uttering a loud cry of pain, he reeled back- 
ward and fell with a heavy thud to the floor. 

Without a moment’s hesitation l east the ham- 
mer aside, thrust the revolver in my pocket, and, 
grasping the box, dashed downstairs to the street 
door. 

At that moment I heard a man passing out- 
side, whistling a music-hall air. It was Grine- 
vitch; I knew that no one was watching outside. 
Opening the door, I carried the box down the 
steps and hurried quickly away in the opposite 
direction to that by which I had approached. 
Walking down Deacon Street, in order to return 
to the Walworth Road, I was surprised to find so 
many police constables, for fully a dozen passed 
me. Nevertheless, I was unmolested, and on 
gaining the main thoroughfare hailed a passing 
hansom, and placing the box on the seat beside 
me, drove to my chambers. 

I had not been joined by Grinevitch as I had 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 9 1 

arranged, and supposed that he had remained 
behind to ascertain the cause of the sudden 
influx of police. 

It was well that I left the house as quickly as 
I did, for I learnt afterward that a raid was made 
upon the place almost immediately. But be- 
yond finding three rooms full of furniture, some 
locksmith's tools, and the chief spy lying insen- 
sible, their vigilance was unrewarded. 

A week later Guibaud had recovered from the 
blow I had dealt him, and I was again “shadow- 
ing” him. He was walking along the Strand, in 
the direction of Trafalgar Square, when I passed 
him and appeared to suddenly recognize him. 
After a few moments’ conversation I found he 
was going into Oxford Street, therefore I pro- 
posed that he should accompany me along 
Shaftesbury Avenue, and call at my chambers 
for a whisky and soda, an arrangement to which 
he made no objection. 

Presently, as he sat before my sitting-room fire 
damiring my little flat for its artistic decorations 
and coziness, I stood upon the hearthrug, smok- 
ing a cigarette and watching him with anxious 
expectation. He was foolishly unsuspicious, or 


92 THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 

he would not have drank the liquor I offered 
him. 

Almost immediately after emptying his glass 
he became dazed. 

“I — I don’t know how it is — but — I feel 
strangely unwell,” he exclaimed, with an attempt 
to laugh, at the same time drawing his hand 
across his brow. '' Dieu ! my head is swimming 
—I— I ” 

And after struggling to rise, he fell back in the 
armchair unconscious. 

Unbuttoning his coat, I quickly abstracted the 
contents of his pockets. 

There were only several letters and a well- 
worn pocket-book. Carefully examining the 
entries in the latter, I found they consisted of 
the names, addresses, and descriptions of various 
Russian refugees. Some of the names had a 
cross against them, which evidently denoted that 
they were revolutionists. In the cover of the 
book was a letter on thin foreign paper, which 
had been carefully preserved. Eagerly reading 
through the communication, I discovered that 
the writer had betrayed our secret, and gave a 
detailed outline of the conspiracy. 

It was written in Russian by one who gave his 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 93 

address at 88 Rue Royale, Dieppe, and signed 
with the initials “P. P.” But the caligraphy was 
unmistakable,' for I had a number of communica- 
tions in that handwriting, which I recognized as 
that of Peter Patrovski, a prominent rnember of 
the Paris Circle. A number of members of that 
branch of the organization had recently been 
arrested and sentenced to imprisonment, and 
now, from the letter I had discovered, it was 
clear that this traitor to our cause was in the pay 
of the secret police. Taking a pencil and paper, 
I scribbled out a copy of the evidence of Patrov- 
ski’s treachery. It was his death warrant ! 

When I had made myself acquainted with the 
centents of the other letters, I replaced them all 
in the pockets of the insensible man, and then 
endeavored to restore him to consciousness. 

When at last he opened his eyes and roused 
himself, I treated the matter jocularly, attrib- 
uting the result to the strength of the whisky, 
combined with the heat of the room. Almost 
the first thing he did was to feel in his breast 
pocket. Finding both pocket-book and letters 
safe, his suspicions were apparently allayed, and, 
after drinking a little brandy, he pulled himself 
together and took a cab home. 


94 the burlesque of death. 

Little did he dream that within half a dozen 
yards of where he had been seated was the dyna- 
mite clock, which I -had taken from under his 
very nose, and for which the police of London, 
Paris, and Berlin were busily searching. 

Next day I reported Patrovski’s treachery to 
the Executive, and the death sentence was 
passed. 

News had been received from St. Petersburg^ 
that the arrangements there had been perfected. 
An emissary from the Russian capital was to 
travel to Brussels and there receive the clock 
from the Executive. Every port of departure 
for the Continent was, however, being carefully 
watched by the police, and passengers by the 
various mail trains were closely scrutinized at the 
London termini. Even had they not been 
watched, the ordinary routes would have been 
useless, for the Customs examination at any 
foreign port would have been fatal to our project. 
The exact size of the box had been sent to St. 
Petersburg, and arrangements had been made for 
smuggling it across the German and Russian 
frontiers. 

At length, after much discussion the Execu- 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 95 

tive resolved that, as the box was in my posses- 
sion, I should undertake the handing of it over 
to the representative from Russia. 

Owing to the espionage at London stations, I 
was compelled to leave the beaten track. On 
the day following the final decision, I placed the 
box in a small portmanteau, together with some 
wearing apparel, and, calling a cab, drove to 
Croydon, thence taking train to the quaint old 
town of Deal. As there is no service of boats to 
the Continent from the sleepy little place I felt 
secure, and took up my quarters at the “Ship,’' 
an old-fashioned inn opposite the beach, fre- 
quented mainly by fishermen. 

On the afternoon following my arrival I was 
seated in the dingy little bar parlor, scanning a 
limp, beer-stained newspaper, a week old, when 
an elderly, sinister-looking toiler of the sea 
entered. 

“Arf’noon, sir. Fresh breeze outside,” was his 
greeting in a deep, hoarse voice. 

I acquiesced, and, as he seated himself in the 
window-bench and ordered his rum of the ruddy- 
faced waiting-maid, I commenced to chat. 
From his conversation I learnt that he was the 
owner of a small smack, and that he and his 


96 


rnS. BURLESQUE- OE BEAT//. 


three companions were going to “have a turn 
around the Goodwins at midnight.” When, 
with a landsman’s ignorance, I asked whether the 
fishermen of those parts were on good terms 
with the coastguard, he winked knowingly and 
remarked : 

“There’s a good deal wot comes ashore here as 
don’t pay duty, you bet.” 

This remark gave me confidence in my man. 

“Look here,” I said in a low tone, after we 
had been discussing the various modes of evad- 
ing the customs dues. “The fact is. I’ve got 
something that I don’t want to pay duty upon. 
How much do you want to run me over to Bel- 
gium to-night?” 

The man looked keenly at me, and his features 
relaxed into a curious smile. Removing the 
long clay pipe from his lips, he gazed thought- 
fully into his glass. 

“Where do you want to land?” he asked. 

“Anywhere that’s safe. My bag contains 
some jewels — their description is in the hands of 
the police — you understand?” 

“Stolen,” he muttered, nodding his head. 
“I’ve done the same thing afore for gents,” and 
he took a deliberate pull at his pipe. “W^n- 


TH& BVRLE&(^1)E of DEAm. 0? 

duyne ’ud be the best place to run into. No- 
body about; and you could take the dillygance 
to Blankenberghe and then go by train direct to 
Brussels.” 

“Very well; how much?” 

“Twenty poun’.” 

I tried to convince him that the sum . asked 
was too much, but he argued that it was “a con- 
traband job,” and that there were three of his 
mates to be paid out of it. 

At last I consented. 

“All right,” he said, “we’ll start at seven, and 
land you afore daybreak.” 

The evening was dark and stormy, but at the 
hour appointed I managed to get the portman- 
teau out of the inn unobserved, and met him 
on the beach. Quickly assuming an oilskin and 
sou’-wester which he handed me, I jumped into a 
small boat with the four men — about as rough 
looking a quartette as one could imagine— and a 
quarter of an hour later we boarded the smack, 
which lay at anchor some distance from the 
shore. 

We lost no time in preparing to start, and 
soon hoisted sail, let go our moorings, and set 
our bows around the Goodwins in the direction 


9 ^ THE BURLESQUE OP DEATH. 

of the Belgian coast. Gradually the weather 
grew more boisterous, and our boat labored heav- 
ily through the rolling seas until midnight, when 
the storm abated. 

The men were on deck managing the craft, 
while I, with the portmanteau under the bench 
near me, sat alone in the corner of the narrow, 
dirty little cabin, smoking and reading an old 
newspaper by the uncertain light of the swinging 
oil lamp. The motion of the boat must, I think, 
have lulled me to sleep, for I was suddenly 
awakened by hearing whispering near me. 

The lamp had gone out and I was in total 
darkness. 

I listened, feeling convinced that I had heard 
subdued voices. 

Suddenly hoarse, ominous words broke upon 
my ear. 

“Garn ! Don’t be a fool, Ned. He’s got jew- 
els in the bag, wot he’s stole. There aint no rea- 
son why we shouldn’t share.” 

It was the voice of the skipper. 

“Hush! You’ll wake him.” 

“If he stirs, darn him, we’ll chuck him over- 
board, like we did the other cove, that’s all.” 

I sat breathless, hesitating to move. It was 


THE BURLESQ_UE OF DEATH. 99 

plain that the men were a gang of unscrupulous 
villains who intended to rob me. 

While I was reflecting upon my position, I 
heard the portmanteau being dragged from 
under the seat where I had placed it. I knew I 
must act. 

“Well, what do you want with my bag, pray?” 
I cried, jumping to my feet. 

“Lie still, will you,” replied the skipper’s gruff 
voice, “we’re going to have our pick of the 
stones, and if you utter a word we’ll put you 
over where you can’t walk home.” 

“Oh, indeed,” I shouted, drawing my revolver 
and standing on the defense. “Although I can’t 
see you, you devils, the first one who touches 
my bag is a dead man.” 

A blow was immediately aimed at me, but for- 
tunately it fell upon my left arm. At that mo- 
ment one of the men struck a light, and I found 
that all four were in the cabin with me. 

The skipper, who had a life-preserver in his 
hand, noticed my revolver and hesitated. 

“Twenty poun’ aint enough,” he said fiercely, 
“and me and my mates mean to have some o’ 
your jewelry.” 

As these words fell from his lips, one of the 


106 OP DPATH. 

men, a tall, burly fellow, in a dirty yellow oilskin, 
grasped the handle of the portmanteau as if to 
carry it up on deck. 

“We want no jaw,” exclaimed the skipper. 
“Say a word, and we’ll drown you like a rat.” 

“Put that down,” I shouted to the man. “If 
you don’t. I’ll fire !” 

But he laughed mockingly. 

Pointing the pistol over his head, I pulled the 
trigger. The bullet whizzed past his ear, and 
smashed the little square mirror that was hang- 
ing up behind where he was standing. The man 
dropped the bag, and drawing a knife, was in the 
act of rushing upon me, when one of his compan- 
ions held him back. 

“No,” cried the fellow who had grasped his 
arm. “Give him one more chance of life. If he 
hands over the bag to us, we’ll guarantee to land 
him at Wenduyne.” 

“I shan’t give it up,” I replied in anger. “In 
the first place, you cowardly villains have been 
caught in your own trap. There are no jewels 
inside, but stuff that you’d rather not have on 
board this craft. All that’s inside is dynamite !” 

“Dynamite!” ejaculated the men in alarm. 

“Yes,” I replied. “Now listen! You mistook 


fHB ^VkLE^QUE Ok DEA TH. lot 

your man. Fm not an absconding thief, as you 
thought, but, nevertheless, I mean that you shall 
take me to Wenduyne, and what’s more, land me 
there before sunrise. If you don’t, my mission 
will be useless. I’m tired of life, and if you 
don’t fulfill your contract, I shall touch the 
spring inside, and send us all to kingdom come. 
Now, you infernal cutthroats, do as you please. 
I shall remain here, and, if you value your lives, 
you’ll carry out the agreement for which I’ve 
paid you.” 

Then I unlocked the portmanteau, and showed 
them the box concealed inside. 

My fierce, determined attitude cowed them. 
Like beaten dogs, they returned on deck without 
scarcely uttering a word. 

The announcement that I had such a quantity 
of explosive had its effect, for, just as dawn was 
spreading, I was put ashore in a small boat upon 
a lonely part of the beach, about three miles 
north of Wenduyne, and directed to the road 
down which the diligence to Blankenberghe 
would pass. 

That evening I took my seat in the mail train 
for Brussels. 


102 THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 

I had taken my chair at the table d'hdte at the 
Hotel Bellevue at Brussels, when a tall, hand- 
some woman entered, and, bowing stiffly, took a 
vacant chair opposite me. She was about thirty- 
five, and dressed with taste and elegance. Her 
dark, piercing eyes looked into mine inquiringly 
for a moment, while I gazed steadily at her. 
Then, to my surprise, she gave the sign of our 
organization. Immediately I gave the counter- 
sign, and glanced at her reassuringly. 

During the meal, we carried on a commonplace 
conversation in French, and when it had ended, 
we rose to separate. As we were passing out of 
the salle a manger., she whispered to me in Rus- 
sian : 

“My room is No. 64. Meet me there in half 
an hour.” 

I obeyed, and entered her private sitting room 
unobserved. From the breast of her dress she 
drew forth her credential, a letter signed by the 
chief of the St. Petersburg Circle. 

As my room was in the same corridor, I found 
no difficulty in secretly conveying the box from 
my apartments to hers. 

Opening her dressing-case, she placed it in the 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH, 103 

side which had been specially constructed to 
receive it. 

We sat talking for some time, she telling me 
of the progress of the propaganda in the capital, 
and explaining how, on the occasion of the festi- 
val of the Knights of St. George at the Winter 
Palace, the coup was to be made. 

, “I have been here four days,” she said, in reply 
to a question. “Early to-morrow morning I 
must leave on the return journey. I have only 
five days, and it is imperative that I should be 
back in time.” 

“Well,” I said, rising to take my leave, “the 
Executive send you greeting, madame, and wish 
you bon voyage. May this forthcoming bl6w to 
autocracy prove decisive.” 

Merely nCsieuTy' she replied. “I am utterly 
devoted to the cause. Au revoiry And we 
grasped hands. 

Next morning, when I went down to break- 
fast, I learned that madame had already left — for 
Ostend, they believed. After eating my meal, I 
returned to my room, and was astonished to see 
a well-dressed man emerging. A moment later I 
met Guibaud face to face. 


104 THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH. 

“Why, my dear fellow!” he exclaimed, “they 
told me you were not up, so I came to make an 
early call. Well, what are you doing over here? 
A little love affair, eh?” 

“No, IVe just run over to see a couple of old 
chums. I was at college here, you know.” 

“Ah, of course,” he said thoughtfully. “I re- 
member, you told me. Well, Tm going down to 
get something to eat. Come into the salle h 
manger presently, will you. We’ll spend the day 
together.” 

I replied in the affirmative, and left him. 

Entering my room, I at once discovered that 
my portmanteau had been opened, and the con- 
tents turned over. 

But the vigilance of the great detective had 
been frustrated, for he had arrived a couple of 
hours too late. 

Six days later. Walking down the Strand in 
the evening, a newsboy held a paper under my 
nose, crying, “ ’Ere ya’re, sir. Extra spe-shall ! 
Attempt to murder the Tzar! Spe-shall!” 

I purchased a copy, and read the brief tele- 
gram regarding the explosion at the Imperial 
Palace. The Salle Blache, and the adjoining 


THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH, 105 

state apartments, had been wrecked, and al- 
though no lives had been lost, several persons 
had been injured. We regarded the plot as suc- 
cessful, for, once more, without the sacrifice of 
human life, we had terrified his Imperial Majes- 
ty, and showed him that, notwithstanding his 
rigorous measures. Nihilism was still active. 

In the same journal, under the heading, “A 
Paris Mystery,” was the report of the discovery 
of a body in the Seine, with the face cut in the 
form of a cross. 

It was that of the traitor Patrovski. 


V. 

SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA’S SECRET. 


On the curb in the Strand opposite the, en- 
trance to the Gaiety Theater I stood, one wet 
winter’s night, selling newspapers. 

Ill-clad and unwashed, I lounged about with 
the cab touts who were waiting for the conclu- 
sion of the performance, and, although for the 
past hour I had shouted the contents of the 
papers under my arm I had only sold three 
copies. The dirty, ragged rabble from the slums 
off Drury Lane eyed me askance as a new hand, 
little suspecting that I was acting the part of 
detective. 

I was engaged in watching one of my com- 
patriots who had recently arrived in England, 
and whom the party regarded with suspicion. 
Ostensibly he was the agent of a firm of mer- 
chants in Moscow, but from secret information 
we had received from the Circle in that city, we 
shrewdly suspected that his real mission was that 
of agent in the pay of the secret police. Owing 
£06 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 107 

to his failure to discover the authors of the plot 
at the Winter Palace, Guibaud had been sum- 
marily dismissed from the service, and we be- 
lieved that this man, who called himself Albert 
Jacolliot, was his successor. The vigilant obser- 
vation, which for the past fortnight I had kept 
upon him, went to show conclusively that he was 
in London for some secret purpose. 

Assuming all sorts of disguises, I had watched 
him continuously, since the first hour we had 
received warning that he was in London, and 
under the pretense of selling newspapers was 
now watching for his reappearance, so that I 
might follow him. 

While standing on the curb, wet and uncom- 
fortable, gazing wistfully into the warm, bril- 
liantly lit vestibule, a tall, very beautiful girl 
descended the broad flight of stairs. She was in 
evening dress, with a handsome brocaded opera 
cloak around her shoulders, and a white fleecy 
shawl over her head. She was slight and deli- 
cate, with large brown, lustrous eyes, wavy hair, 
a firm mouth, and a nose that was just tip-tilted 
enough to give the face an expression of 
piquancy. 

Several touts rushed up to her crying, “Keb 


io8 SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 

or kerrige, lady?” but she took no heed. Stand- 
ing at the entrance for a moment she looked 
anxiously up and down, and then espied 
me. 

Drawing her cloak closer around her, she 
walked across to where I stood. 

“Paper, lady?” I asked. Globe, Echo, 
Star ? ” 

“Give me anything you like, Vladimir Mikha- 
lovitch,” she replied in Russian, at the same time 
uttering the Nihilist password and giving the 
secret sign, one that indicates indivisibility and is 
known to the revolutionary party throughout 
the world. 

I stood for a moment amazed. She noticed 
my surprise and exclaimed in a low tone, “Give 
me a paper.” 

I gave her one, and in return she handed me a 
penny and a piece of paper folded small. 

“An order from the Executive, conceal it,” she 
said, and turning quickly, entered a cab that was 
standing near and drove away. 

Presently, when no one was watching, I turned 
up at Catherine Street, and opened the note 
under a street lamp. 

The contents were brief^ but to the point, 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 109 

“The bearer is Sophie Zagarovna, Call upon 
her at ii A. M. to-morrow at 76, The Terrace, 
Richmond, and render all assistance possible. 

“Paul Petroff.” 

Sophie Zagarovna ! I knew her by reputation, 
and had been anxious to meet her, for she was 
one of the most daring of the Zurich Nihilists, 
and the boldness and success of her plots had 
more than once caused them to be a source of 
comment throughout the world. It was she 
who, alone and unaided, entrapped General 
Yagodkin, Chief of the Moscow police, and shot 
him through the heart because of the wholesale 
arrests of innocent persons which he made after 
the attempt to wreck the Winter Palace. For 
the past three years she had lived in Zurich, 
where she had been the idol of the students. 
Young, refined, and ^eminently beautiful, she was 
queen of that center of learning, and the Rus- 
sians and Germans who were studying at the col- 
leges vied with one another to secure her smiles. 
She knew well the advantages of beauty, and 
influenced her young admirers to join the party, 
afterward prevailing upon them to go to Russia 
and perform various risky missions. 

In more than one instance a young man, 


no 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 


madly in love with her and enthusiastic in the 
cause of freedom, had journeyed to the land of 
his birth determined to strike a blow against 
Tzardom in order to secure her favor, yet, alas! 
the result has been fatal — either death, or the 
mines. Vain, and fond of admiration, she had 
numbers worshiping at her shrine, yet, through 
all, the breath of scandal had never touched her. 
Indeed, so intensely bent was she upon her pur- 
pose, that her heart appeared steeled against 
love, and she treated those who paid her court 
with queenly reserve. Of her parentage or real 
name nothing was known except that she took 
the oath in St. Petersburg and afterward went to 
Switzerland, where she speedily developed into 
one of the most fearless of Terrorists. 

When I returned to the theater entrance after 
reading the order from Petroff, I was just in time 
to see my man emerge, and I followed him to 
the Westminster Palace Hotel, where he was 
staying. 

Punctually at the time appointed, I was ush- 
ered into a pretty sitting room, the windows of 
which commanded a broad view of the Rich- 


SOPHIE ZaCAROVNA'S SECRET. m 

mond Terrace Gardens and the picturesque val- 
ley of the Thames. 

In a few moments Sophie Zagarovna entered, 
and greeting me with a winning smile and pleas- 
ant words, sat down and commenced to chat. 

‘T am here, in England, upon a secret mission 
from our Circle,” she said in Russian, replying 
to my inquiries. “The Executive have recom- 
mended you as one who can assist me. It is for 
our cause, but its true object must not be known 
just yet. You must understand that it is not 
because you are distrusted, but because there are 
spies in the very walls. Will you help me?” 

“For the cause — yes,” I replied. 

“Then listen^ For the future I shall be known 
as ^phie Kalatenka, daughter of the late Count 
Kalatenka, Governor of Smolensk, and you are 
my brother Ivan. We shall both change our 
residence and live at a West End boarding- 
house, where the other boarders will know us as 
brother and sister.” 

“Yes,” I said, puzzled. 

“You wonder why?” she added, laughing. 
“Well, you will see. No one knows you at the 
Embassy, do they?” 


112 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 


“No.” 

‘‘Then leave all to me, and we shall succeed.” 

I remained and lunched with her, spending a 
very pleasant couple of hours discussing the 
prospects of the revolutionary programme, and 
criticising its weak points. 

Then I took leave of her, promising to meet 
her in London on the morrow. 

Two months later. 

We were guests at a grand ball given at the 
Russian Embassy, Chesham House. 

I had assumed the ’character of the handsome 
girl’s brother, and we had taken up our quarters 
at an expensive boarding-house at South Ken- 
sington. ^ 

By means unknown to me Sophie had pro- 
cured invitations for us both, and it was about 
ten o’clock when we alighted from our hired car- 
riage, and shortly afterward entered the fine ball- 
room. 

The uniforms of the men added brilliancy to 
the gay scene, but among the women there was 
not one so beautiful as my “sister,” who, attired 
in a dress of pale pink, looked fresh and fair as a 
spring flower. 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. I13 

Soon we were parted, and for the first hour I 
only caught occasional glimpses of her as she 
waltzed with various partners. Her flushed face 
betokened pleasure, and she laughed merrily at 
me over her partner’s shoulder. 

Later in the evening, when I grew tired of 
dancing, I sought the quietude of the conserva- 
tory, which led out from an adjoining room. 
Casting myself upon a seat behind a great palm, 
where I was completely hidden from view, I 
gave myself up to reflection, vaguely wondering 
what was the nature of Sophie’s secret mission. 

Once, while she had been left alone for a mo- 
ment during an interval, I sat beside her, and 
asked how she was enjoying herself. 

“Very well,” she replied, in a low whisper be- 
hind her fan. “If a tragedy occurs to-night you 
need not be surprised.” 

It was this warning that puzzled me. 

Suddenly words broke upon my ear. I was 
not alone, as I had imagined, and as I listened I 
heard a man’s short derisive laugh as he replied 
to an eager question put by a woman. 

I recognized the tones of the latter as those of 
Sophie. 

“Then you are not afraid of these murderous 


114 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 


Nihilists?” she was asking. “Are they not 
dreadful people?” 

“Bah!” he replied confidently. “We are fully 
able to cope with such scum. Siberia is large 
enough to hold them all, and before long we 
shall stamp out the spirit of revolt from among 
the scoundrels. I myself have sent ‘dozens of 
Nihilists to the mines, and for that reason my 
life has been threatened.” 

“And are you not afraid of their vengeance?” 
she inquired. 

“Scarcely,” he replied, laughing. “The cow- 
ardly idiots dare not touch me.” 

“But they are fearless,” she observed. “Their 
emissaries are everywhere. They might kill 
you !” 

“They are perfectly at liberty to do their 
worst,” he replied. “But why talk of such a sub- 
ject, when all here are so gay? You look 
charming!” 

“Thanks for the compliment,” she said. “But 
to hear about Nihilists always interests me. I 
suppose you sometimes discover their plots, do 
you not?” 

“Yes, very often,” he answered. “Indeed, I 
am Causing investigations to be made now, at 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 115 

Moscow, and have obtained information which 
implicates between thirty and forty persons. I 
shall be returning to Russia in about a fortnight, 
and as the life of our Father the Tzar must be 
protected, I shall give orders for the arrest and 
transportation of the whole batch of conspir- 
ators. But one so happy as yourself ought not 
to trouble your head about such things,” he 
added, laughing. 

Then I heard him utter words of love, and the 
sound of a kiss fell upon my ear. 

Presently, when he had declared his affection, 
and she had admitted in faltering tones that she 
loved him, they rose and passed out into the 
ballroom. 

I followed them unobserved. 

The man upon whose arm she leaned, radiant 
and content, was Captain Feodor Orfanoff, a tall 
fellow of about thirty, with a well shaped head, 
and in whose fiery gray eyes there lurked a joy- 
ous twinkle, which told of a right merry nature 
within. He was the very incarnation of robust, 
mirthful manhood, and I knew that during the 
brief period he had been in England, he had 
been exceedingly popular among the attaches. 
I had no idea, however, that he was the Chief of 


Ii6 SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 

the Secret Police of Moscow, and that he was in 
London endeavoring to elucidate some mystery 
connected with the plot he had discovered. 

When, shortly before the dawn, Sophie and I 
were driving home, I observed that the captain 
was a pleasant fellow, in order to cause her to 
talk of him. 

But, with a preoccupied air, she merely an- 
swered : “Yes, charming.” 

Then she turned our conversation into a differ- 
ent channel. 

A few days later Orfanoff called, and I was 
introduced by Sophie as her brother. Soon he 
became a constant visitor, and we three fre- 
quently dined and afterward went to places of 
amusement together. 

As time went on it was plain that Sophie’s 
love for him increased, while on his part he 
adored her, sending her boxes of choice flowers 
daily, and making her several costly presents of 
jewelry. I became more puzzled as to the 
object of her mission by an event which occurred 
about three weeks later. I had been out during 
the day, and returned about seven o’clock. As I 
passed the door of our sitting room, I noticed 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA S SECRET. H? 

that it was ajar, and, pushing it open, entered 
noiselessly. 

Sophie, who did not notice my entrance, stood 
facing the fire, bending and examining intently 
something she held in her hand. 

Creeping up behind her, and peeping over her 
shoulder, I saw, to my surprise, that she held 
in her hand a morocco case, which contained 
a pretty ornament, evidently intended for the 
adornment of the hair. It was in the shape of a 
rapier, the tapering blade being of steel, while 
the hilt was set with diamonds. 

Intending to frighten her, I suddenly grasped 
her wrist, and snatched the ornament from its 
bed of crimson satin. 

"'Dieu!'' she cried, “I — I didn’t know you 
were here, Vladimir. You startled me!” 

“What a pretty pin,” I remarked. “Where 
did you get it from?” 

“It is mine,” she replied. 

At that moment I made pretense of lunging 
at her with it, when she shrank back with ex- 
pressions of fear and repugnance that amazed 
me. 

“Is it sharp?” I inquired, feeling the point with 
my thumb. 


Ii8 SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 

Gran' Dieu! what would you do? You will 
kill yourself !” she cried in alarm. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, as she wrested 
the pin from my fingers. 

“I mean that a puncture with this would prove 
fatal,” she said, in a low, serious tone. “You 
understand?” 

“Is it poisoned, then?” 

She nodded her head, and, holding the pin 
nearer the shaded lamp, showed that for about 
an inch from the point it was discolored by some 
black substance. 

“Why do you carry such a dangerous weapon 
with you?” 

“Cannot you guess?” she asked hoarsely, at 
the same time unbuttoning the breast of her 
dress, and drawing forth a letter, which she 
handed me. Then she sank into a chair, and, 
covering her face with her hands, burst into tears. 

The letter was in Russian. It acknowledged 
receipt of the facts regarding Feodor Orfanoff, 
and stated that the death sentence had been 
passed upon him. Appended was the warrant of 
the Moscow Circle, ordering her to kill him. 

In a moment the object of her secret mission 
was plain. 


SOPHIE ZA GARO VHA’S SECRE T. 1 1 9 

“And you love him, Sophie?” I said in a low 
tone. 

“Yes,” she sobbed. “I came here to discover 
how he intended to act on his return to Moscow. 
I have betrayed him, and the Circle have passed 
sentence. In spite of myself, I have grown to 
love him, and must save him. How can I do it? 
To warn him would be to place the whole Circle 
in danger, besides bringing the vengeance of the 
party upon myself.” 

Jumping up, she paced the room excitedly, 
while I stood watching her sorrowfully, unable to 
give advice or render assistance. 

As I stood, meditative and silent, a servant 
entered with a card. She glanced at it, drew a 
long breath, and exclaimed : “Captain Orfanoff ! 
Show him up !” 

Closing the little morocco case with a snap, 
she put it quickly into the pocket of her dress, 
and replaced the letter in her breast. Scarcely 
had she rebuttoned her bodice when Feodor 
entered, and she went forward to meet him with 
a smile and an expression of glad welcome. 

He grasped her hand — the hand that was 
ordered to compass his death ! 

Then he greeted me, and we seated ourselves 
before the fire. 


120 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA^S SECRET. 


“Well,” he said, after we had been conversing 
for several minutes, “this is my last visit here.” 

“Are you going away?” asked Sophie in dis- 
may. 

“Yes, dear, I start for Moscow to-morrow. I 
have some important work to perform, and have 
come to-night to wish you farewell.” 

“So soon,” she said sorrowfully. “When will 
you return?” 

“Perhaps never. I only came here to en- 
deavor to discover a woman whose Christian 
name was the same as your own.” 

“What did you want with her?” 

“To arrest her, and demand her extradition. 
It was she who killed my predecessor — General 
Yagodkin.” 

“Ah, I remember,” I said. “She escaped from 
Russia.” 

“Yes, she’s a most dangerous Nihilist, and 
many recent plots have been due to her invent- 
ive genius. If I find her, she will go to the 
gallows.” 

“Oh, don’t talk of such horrors, Feodor!” ex- 
claimed Sophie, who had turned somewhat pale, 
and involuntarily shuddered. “How cold it is, 
I must go and get a shawl.” 

And she rose and went out. 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 


I2I 


For nearly half an hour she was absent, while 
Orfanoff and I smoked, drank our whiskies and 
sodas, and chatted. Then she returned, and 
together we wished him farewell and bon voyage. 

Several weeks had passed. Sophie and I, by 
means of false passports, had journeyed to Mos- 
cow. She had decided to run all risks and warn 
her lover of the impending danger, and had per- 
suaded me to accompany her, in order to allay 
suspicion. We had taken up our quarters at the 
Hotel de Dresde, and frequented the boulevards 
and the summer gardens daily, in order to meet 
him alone, for we dare not call at the Bureau of 
Police. 

By means only known to the members of our 
party we were quickly introduced into the circle 
of official society, in order, of course, that Sophie 
might complete her mission. One evening we 
accepted an invitation to dine at the house of 
a wealthy merchant, who lived in the Bolshoi 
Dmietriefka, having previously ascertained that 
Feodor Orfanoff was also to be a guest. 

His surprise and pleasure were unbounded 
when we met prior to going in to dinner. 

Sophie looked bewitching and brilliant m a 


122 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 


well-fitting evening dress, and with her hair 
dressed in Grecian fashion. There was one 
thing, however, that caused me alarm. She wore 
in her hair the poisoned ornament. 

The dinner party was a large one, and Orfanoff 
.sat between myself and my pseudo “sister.” 
Over the meal we chatted merrily, she explaining 
how, owing to financial business connected with 
her late father’s estate, she had been compelled 
to travel to Russia. 

After we had joined the ladies in the drawing 
room I saw she was in earnest conversation with 
him, and noticed that they presently walked 
together into an adjoining room, which was un- 
occupied. 

I surmised from her movements and agitated 
manner that the time had come when she in- 
tended to warn him, therefore I followed noise- 
lessly and overheard their conversation. 

“Well, ma chere^ what is this great secret of 
yours?” he asked with a smile, balancing himself 
upon the edge of the table. 

'‘Hush!” she whispered. “Someone may hear 
us. If they did, it would be fatal.” 

“What do you mean? Why all this mystery?” 

“I mean that you are condemned to die!” 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA^S SECRET. 123 

“To die !” 

“Yes. You will die in the same manner as 
General Yagodkin. The Nihilists have passed 
sentence of death upon you.” 

“Tell me — how do you know?” he asked, 
breathlessly excited, and pale with alarm. 

“Hush!” she urged. “Speak lower. I — I 
know you love me, Feodor. I have not forgot- 
ten your words when in London ; you asked me 
to be your wife ; but, alas ! I can never be more 
to you than what I am — a friend — although we 
love one another so well.” 

Her voice faltered as she spoke, and the last 
words of the sentence were almost lost in chok- 
ing sobs. 

“And why?” he asked, slipping his arm around 
her waist and drawing her head down upon his 
gold-braided uniform coat. 

She shuddered, and gently disengaged herself 
from his embrace. 

“Listen,” she said, in a hoarse, fierce whisper; 
“I have journeyed here, to Moscow, on purpose 
to warn you of your danger. I leave to-night, 
and you will never again see me. I am here at 
great risk, for my life would be taken by the 
Terrorists if they knew I had given you warning, 


124 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 


whereas, if the Bureau of the Third Section knew 
that I was on Russian soil, they would, undoubt- 
edly, arrest me.” 

“Who, then, are you?” asked Captain Orfanoff 
in surprise. 

“You know me, surely?” she said, with an 
attempt to laugh. 

“Sophie Kalatenka.” 

At that moment I '•heard voices behind me, 
and, turning quickly, saw three police officers in 
uniform at the door. 

“There she is!” cried one. “I recognize her.” 

“Yes; let us enter.” 

Brushing past me, the men unceremoniously 
burst into the room. 

“What means this intrusion?” demanded Orfa- 
noff fiercely. 

The men saluted, but before they could ex- 
plain a grayheaded man in ordinary dress pushed 
forward, and walking up to my “sister,” ex- 
claimed : 

“Sophie Zagarovna! 1 arrest you for murder, 
by order of our Imperial Father, the Tzar!” 

**Dieu!'' cried Orfanoff, “Sophie Zagarovna! 
You — you must be mistaken.” 

“Tseklinski !” gasped Sophie, deathly pale, and 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA'S SECRET. 125 

shrinking from the man who had addressed her. 
'‘It is you! By Heaven! we meet again, and— 
and you are the victor. Once I spared your life 
as I have spared Feodor’s, and this is how you 
repay me — by arrest! I love Feodor, but I 
know there is no hope of happiness now I have 
fallen into your merciless clutches.” 

“You have deceived me,” cried Orfanoff, angry 
and bewildered at this revelation, “I have loved 
and trusted a murderess !” 

“I — I have risked my life to save you,” she 
said wildly. “Kiss me once — for the last time,” 
she implored. 

He flung her from him with an expression of 
disgust, coupled with an oath. 

“You — you cast me aside!” she cried in dis- 
may. “Then I care nothing for my future.” 
Addressing Tseklinski, whom I recognized as the 
renowned and expert St. Petersburg detective, 
she shrieked : “When you were my lover I pro- 
tected you, and through me you escaped the plot 
for your assassination. Now you arrest me for 
murder, merely because I removed a tyrant 
whose inhuman delight was to send innocent per- 
sons to Kara ” 

“Enough, jade!” cried Tseklinski, his face 


126 


SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA^S SECRET. 


flushed with rage. "We have sought for you 
long enough, and if Captain Orfanoff is weak 
enough to be tricked and fooled by you, I am 
not.” 

Turning to the officers, he added: 

"Arrest her, and take her to the Bureau at 
once.” 

The men advanced to obey their chief s com- 
mand, but ere they could lay a finger upon her, 
she had staggered back and had fallen fainting 
and senseless upon the floor. 

They stooped to raise her, but a look of horror 
overspread their countenances, as one of them 
removed his hand from the back of her head and 
found blood upon it. 

Tseklinski bent, gazed into her face, placed his 
hand upon her heart, and listened intently. 

"Dead!” he exclaimed, in a tone of awe. 

I rushed forward to ascertain the truth. It 
flashed upon me in a moment. The pin she had 
worn in her hair had, by the force of the fall, 
been driven into her scalp, and the deadly Obeah 
poison upon the point had caused almost instant 
death. 

It was a strange vagary of fate. The harmless 
looking weapon with which she had originally 


SOPHIE ZA GARO VNA' S SECRE T. 127 

intended to assassinate the newly appointed 
Chief of Police, had caused her own death. 

Yet even that was preferable to the punish- 
ment that awaited her had she lived. 

Once only I glanced upon the blanched, hand- 
some features, then I hurried out of the house. 

Before midnight I had left Moscow and was on 
my way back to London. 


VI. 

BY A VANISHED HAND. 

Felix Karelin and I met in a rather curious 
manner. 

I had been visiting two refugees, Dobroslavin 
and Bolomez, who lived in Little Alie Street, 
Whitechapel, and about six o’clock one July 
evening, was walking along Leman Street toward 
Aldgate Station, intending to take train to the 
West End. As I turned the corner into Com- 
mercial Road an aged, decrepit, blind man acci- 
dentally stumbled against me. Bent, haggard, 
and attired in a ragged frock coat, green with 
age, with a battered silk hat, the nap of which 
had long ago disappeared, he looked miserable 
and melancholy. 

Halting, and tapping with his stick, he ex- 
claimed in broken English: “I beg your pardon, 
sir.” 

He was moving onward when I caught him by 
the arm. There was an accent in his voice that 
I recognized. 


128 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 


129 


*‘What nationality are you?” I asked, in Rus- 
sian. 

In the same language he replied that he was a 
native of St. Petersburg, and an escaped political 
exile. 

“A political!” I repeated, in surprise, as all 
escaped revolutionists in London were well 
known to us, and received money regularly from 
our relief fund. 

“Yes,” he said; “I escaped from the Algachi 
silver mines a year ago. But are you Russian 
also?” 

I replied in the affirmative, and he at once 
urged me to accompany him to his lodgings, 
where we could talk. “It is only in Briton’s 
Court, St. George s Road, not very far from 
here,” he said. 

Feeling a sudden interest in the old man, I 
acceded to his request, and he led me up and 
down several narrow squalid streets, with which 
he was evidently well acquainted. At length we 
turned down a dirty, evil-smelling court, and he 
stopped before a small house at the farther end. 
He opened the door with a latchkey, and I fol- 
lowed him upstairs. 

When we entered his sitting room on the 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 


130 

Upper floor, I was astonished to find it bright 
and comfortably furnished. One would never 
have expected such a clean, cozy room in a 
house of that character, situated as it was in one 
of the lowest quarters of the metropolis. Crim- 
son damask curtains hung from a neat gilt cor- 
nice; in the center of the room was a round 
table, upon which tea was laid, and seated at the 
window, reclining in a cane rocking-chair, was a 
pretty fair-haired girl, of about sixteen, reading a 
novel. 

She rose as we entered, and glanced shyly at 
me. 

“Rosa, IVe brought a friend, one of our com- 
patriots, whose name, however, I have not the 
pleasure of knowing.” 

“Ivan Sidorski,” I replied, uttering the first 
name that crossed my mind. I considered it 
politic to conceal my identity until I knew more 
about him. 

His daughter smiled, shook hands, and wel- 
comed me. 

“You are more comfortable here than in 
Algachi,” I said, glancing around. 

“Yes,” he replied. “Although I am blind and 
helpless, I am not exactly destitute.” 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 131 

We took tea together, and were quite a merry 
trio. Rosa Karelin was charming, and her fa- 
ther’s conversation was that of an educated 
and cultured man. 

After I had given him a fictitious account of 
myself, he told me his story. He was a lapidary 
in St. Petersburg, and had been thrice arrested 
and confi^jed in one of the bomb-proof casemates 
of the prison of Petropaulovsk, because it was 
alleged that his freedom was “prejudicial to pub- 
lic order.” On the last occasion of his arrest he 
was condemned to hard labor for life, and sent 
across Siberia to the dreaded mining district 
beyond Irkutsk. His daughter went into volun- 
tary exile with him, and they remained at 
Algachi four years. At length, aided by a Cos- 
sack officer, who took compassion on the 
decrepit old man and his devoted child, Karelin 
succeeded in escaping. He then became a 
brodyag., or escaped convict, who wanders about 
the country subsisting upon what he can beg or 
steal, but always traveling toward the west. In 
this way he managed to walk nearly a thousand 
miles toward the Urals, when by good chance 
he fell in with a train of freight sleighs going to 
Nijni-Novgorod fair. One of the drivers had 


132 BV A VANISHED HAND. 

fallen ill and died, therefore he disguised himself 
in the dead man’s clothes and took his place, 
having first, however, succeeded with the help of 
some of the other men in filing away his leg- 
irons. The clothes with the yellow diamond 
upon them he buried in a snowdrift, and with 
the dead man’s passport was allowed to pass 
safely back to Europe, after an absence of nearly 
five years. 

Soon after his arrival, however, he was stricken 
down by fever, and lost his eyesight. In Kazan 
he was joined by Rosa, who had followed him. 
Afterward they came to England. 

The story of the daughter’s earnest affection 
was a touching one, and as the old man related it 
tears fell from his sightless eyes. The whole 
narrative was intensely interesting to me, inas- 
much as his description of the terrible hardships 
of deportation by road, of life in the filthy, insan- 
itary itapeSy and the horrors of the Tomsk 
perisylniy were all well known and vivid in my 
own recollection. It was evident that the poor 
old man had been subjected to the same inhu- 
man brutality that had wrecked so many thou- 
sand lives, and none could sympathize with him 
more sincerely than I. 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 133 

Without giving him any idea that I also had 
been exiled to the Great Prison Land, I ques- 
tioned him upon various points, and his replies, 
one and all, were those of a man who had suffered 
in the same manner as myself. Besides, his head 
had been shaved, for upon one side his white 
locks were thin, while on the other they grew 
thickly, and were of an iron gray. 

“What can I do?” he asked mournfully, when 
he had concluded his story. “The money I have 
will not last me much longer. I must seek 
work.” 

“But you are blind!” I exclaimed, looking 
into his dull, bleared, stony eyes. 

“Yes; nevertheless I can still do my work. 
One can feel to cut and polish gems better than 
using the keenest eyesight. For three months 
prior to coming here, I was employed at the 
Roeterseiland factory at Amsterdam. Do you 
know anyone in London who wants a workman?” 

I was silent. I happened to know a wealthy 
Jew diamond merchant, Goldberg by name, who 
lived in that dingy thoroughfare which contains 
more precious stones than the whole of the rest 
of London, Hatton Garden. 

“You do not speak,” he said entreatingly, lay- 


134 


BV A VANISHED HAND. 


ing his thin hand upon my arm. “If you do 
know anyone, give me an introduction to them, 
and as a Russian and a brother, I shall thank 
you.” 

“Yes, do,” urged Rosa, jumping to her feet 
and placing her arm affectionately around her 
father’s neck. “He must do some work, or we 
shall starve.” 

I hesitated, reflecting upon the curious fact 
that this man, being an escaped “political,” was 
not included in our list. It was useless to give 
him the Nihilist sign, for he could not see. 

“Well,” I said presently, “I know one gentle- 
man, a dealer in gems, who frequently employs 
lapidaries. If you like I will speak to him to- 
morrow.” 

Both father and daughter thanked me effu- 
sively, and I took a leaf from my pocket-book 
and wrote Goldberg’s name and address, at the 
same time promising to call personally and inter- 
est myself on his behalf. 

Soon afterward I bade them farewell, and 
walked homeward through the city in a very 
mediative frame of mind. 

Within a week of my meeting with Karelin, he 


BV A VANISHED HAND, I35 

was engaged by Goldberg, who found him an 
excellent workman. The delicate sense of touch 
that he had developed caused him to exercise 
far greater care over his work than the ordinary 
lapidary, and Goldberg expressed a belief that 
the old man was the best diamond polisher in 
London. 

I was glad I had been enabled to render the 
blind man a service, while on his part he contin- 
ually overwhelmed me with heartfelt gratitude. 
We , met frequently, and although I refrained 
from explaining my connection with the revolu- 
tionary party, I introduced him to several mem- 
bers of Parliament and other prominent persons 
who were advocates of Russian freedom, and 
who made the National Liberal Club their head- 
quarters. The blind old man and his daughter 
were invited to numbers of houses, and much 
sympathy was shown them. Rosa was petted 
by the ladies, and her father appeared never tired 
of describing the terrors of administrative exile. 

Occasionally he lectured ; on the first occa- 
sion at the National Liberal Club, and afterward 
at various halls in the metropolis. The title of 
his lecture was “My Life in Siberia,” and great 
crowds assembled to hear him, while the news- 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 


135 

papers reported his observations and criticisms at 
unusual length. 

Although he had been exiled as “a dangerous 
political,” he denied that he had ever entertained 
revolutionary ideas, and expressed his disagree- 
ment with the propaganda of the Nihilists. By 
reason of that expression I refrained from admit- 
ting that I was a Terrorist. Of course I had 
reported to the Executive, and my instructions 
had been to watch him narrowly and penetrate 
the mystery which enveloped his past. 

At this period it chanced that we were un- 
usually active with our propaganda, especially in 
-Poland, and the government viewed their futile 
efforts to suppress the circulation of revolution- 
ary literature with increasing alarm. They were 
well aware that the majority of the books, 
pamphlets, and manifestoes came from England, 
yet they were utterly unable to discover the 
means by which they evaded the censorship. 

One noteworthy document, which was being 
circulated by hundreds of thousands throughout 
the length and breadth of the Russian Empire, 
was the new programme of the Executive Com- 
mittee. 

*'By fundamental conviction we are Socialists 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 137 

and Democrats,” is the translation of the open- 
ing sentence. Then it proceeded as follows: 
“We are satisfied that only through socialistic 
principles can the human race acquire liberty, 
equality, and fraternity; secure the full and har- 
monious development of the individual as well 
as the material prosperity of all ; and thus make 
progress. The welfare of the people and the 
will of the people are our two most sacred and 
most inseparable principles.” The document 
then went on to criticise severely the condition 
of the country under the present Tzar, and 
pointed out that in view of the stated aim of the 
party its operations might be classified under the 
heads of propaganda, destructive activity, the 
organization of secret societies, the acquirement 
of ties, and the organization of the revolution. 

Clause 2, headed “Destructive and Terroristic 
Activity,” was perhaps the one most calculated 
to inspire the Tzar and the government with feel- 
ings of insecurity and fear. The intentions of 
the party were expressed boldly in the following 
terms: “Terroristic activity consists in the de- 
struction of the most harmful persons in the 
government, the protection of the party from 
spies, and the punishment of official lawlessness 


138 BV A VANISHED HAND. 

and violence in all the more prominent and im- 
portant cases in which such lawlessness and 
violence are manifested. The aim of such activ- 
ity is to break down the prestige of govern- 
mental power, to furnish continuous proof of the 
possibility of carrying on a contest against the 
government, to raise in that way the revolution- 
ary spirit of the people and inspire belief in the 
practicability of revolution, and, finally, to form 
a body suited and accustomed to warfare.” 

So active were the police that it had been 
impossible to establish a secret press in Russia 
with any degree of safety; hence it was that 
Boris Dobroslavin and Isaac Bolomez, two work- 
ing printers of Warsaw, had come to London for 
the purpose of printing revolutionary literature, 
which was afterward smuggled across the Rus- 
sian frontier. 

The house in which they had established them- 
selves was one of a row of small, old-fashioned, 
grimy private dwellings of the usual type found 
in the East End, and in the back parlor they had 
fitted up a hand press, while in an upstairs room 
they did the work of composing in Russian type, 
which they had brought from Poland. 

Here the manifestoes and pamphlets issued by 


BY A VANISHED HAND. I39 

the Executive were printed, and by means only 
known to our organization conveyed into Russia 
and Siberia, and circulated secretly. For nearly 
a year the dissemination of Terrorist literature 
had been going on, and we were gradually flood- 
ing the Tzar’s Empire with documents advo- 
cating freedom. 

Dobroslavin and Bolomez were pleasant, easy- 
going fellows, and one day while walking with 
Karelin in the Whitechapel Road I met them 
and introduced him. They had previously heard 
me speak of the blind exile, and were at once 
interested in him, inviting him to their house. 
During the weeks that followed we four often 
spent evenings together at Little Alie Street, 
although it must be remembered that no intima- 
tion was ever given to Karelin of the nature of 
the business that was carried on there, nor was he 
ever shown into the workrooms. 

Rosa sometimes accompanied her father, and 
on those occasions would sing some of those old 
Polish love songs that touch the heart of the 
exiled patriotic Russian. 

She possessed a pretty contralto voice, and 
generally accompanied herself upon an old man- 
dolin, which she played with considerable skill. 


140 BY A VANISHED HAND. 

One evening an incident occurred which 
puzzled me greatly. We had been chatting 
together in the front sitting room, and Boris and 
Isaac had left the room in order to consult in 
private upon a note they had just received from 
the Executive. Karelin and I were sitting in 
armchairs on either side of the fireplace, when I 
noticed that on a table, immediately behind my 
companion, there lay a half-printed copy of a six- 
teen-page pamphlet entitled “The Mad Tzar,” 
which, couched in inflammatory language, had 
been so largely circulated as to cause the great- 
est consternation among members of the “Third 
Section,” who were utterly at a loss to discover 
who was primarily responsible for the multiplica- 
tion of this severe and ruthless criticism of the 
Imperial Autocrat. 

As I sat watching the old man’s expressionless 
face I could not help reflecting that it was a rash 
proceeding to allow such a document to lie about 
openly. Yet I reflected that the old man, was 
blind and could not possibly ascertain the nature 
of the printed paper. Just at that moment 
Bolomez put his head inside the door and called 
me into an adjoining room to join in their con- 
ference. 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 141 

When, five minutes later, I returned to the 
sitting room, Karelin was still in the attitude in 
which I had left him, but the pamphlet was no 
longer there ! 

Its disappearance surprised me, for it seemed 
quite as impossible that anyone had entered the 
room and taken it during my brief absence as 
that the blind man had discovered it. It was 
upon my tongue to remark upon it, but I hesi- 
tated, perceiving that to refer to it might whet 
the old man’s curiosity and arouse his suspicions. 

Nevertheless, the disappearance of the pam- 
phlet was a mystery, and I determined upon 
finding out whether he had purloined it, and if 
so, the reason of the theft. 

A few days later I called upon Goldberg. His 
house was one of that long row of gloomy 
second-rate-looking private residences, with deep 
basements and flights of stone steps leading to 
the front doors, which line one side of Hatton 
Garden, and where dealers in gems most do con- 
gregate. There was nothing in the exterior to 
attract the attention of the enterprising burglar, 
with the exception, perhaps, of the iron bars 
which protected the windows in the area, and 


142 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 


even the shining brass plate bore simply the 
name, “F. Goldberg,” without any indication of 
his business. Inside, in the room used as office, 
the feature one would have expected to find — 
namely, a great green-painted iron safe with 
enormous handles and hinges — was absent. The 
room was nothing more than a comfortable 
library with well-filled bookcases around the 
walls. 

When I entered, Goldberg was busy writing 
letters. Rising, he grasped my hand, and, greet- 
ing me warmly, bade me be seated in the client’s 
chair. 

“You would like to see your blind at 

work, eh?” he said, when we had been chatting 
some time. “Well, you shall. He’s a marvel- 
ous workman. See, here’s a stone he finished 
this morning” ; and taking from a drawer in his 
writing-table a tiny round card-board box, he 
removed the lid and handed it to me. 

Lying in its bed of pink cotton-wool was an 
enormous yellow diamond which flashed and 
gleamed in the ray of sunlight that strayed into 
the room. 

“How much is it worth?” I asked. 

“My price is a thousand pounds,” he replied. 


BV A VANISHED HAND. 


143 


“That one, however, has been ordered by a jew- 
eler, and is to form the center of an ornament 
which, in a few weeks’ time, will be presented by 
a bridegroom to his bride.’’ 

“I should like to see Karelin at work,’’ I said. 

My friend acquiesced willingly, and took me 
upstairs to a small back room, where the old man 
was sitting at a lathe. He was busily engaged 
cutting a rough diamond by means of fine wire 
and diamond dust. In order that he should not 
be aware of my presence I did not speak. His 
master addressed some words to him regarding 
his work, which the old lapidary answered with- 
out turning his sightless eyes toward us. The 
careful and accurate manner in which he worked 
was little short of marvelous, for he stopped 
every few moments to feel with the tip of his 
forefinger the precise dimensions of the incision 
he was making in the gem. 

My object in seeing him at work was twofold. 
The first was to watch the movement of his face, 
but I found that it wore the blank, expression- 
less look of a blind man. The second was to 
make an investigation. His coat was hanging 
upon a nail behind the door, and holding up my 
finger to my friend, as an indication of secrecy, I 


144 BY A VANISHED HAND. 

crossed noiselessly to the garment, and, placing 
my hand in the breast pocket, abstracted its con- 
tents. 

A. momentary glance was sufficient to detect 
the object which I sought ; for, folded in half and 
lying among a number of letters and bills, was 
the missing copy of the revolutionary pam- 
phlet. 

I pushed the papers back hurriedly, and Gold- 
berg and I left the old man’s workshop. I was 
sorely puzzled to know what the blind man 
wanted with a document of that description, and 
after replying evasively to Goldberg’s questions, 
I bade him farewell, and left. 

Several days passed. 

One evening I visited the house in Little Alie 
Street and found Dobroslavin, Bolomez, and 
Karelin smoking together in the dingy little sit- 
ting room. We sat together about an hour, when 
the old man knocked the ashes from his pipe, and 
rising, said, “I must be going now. I promised 
Rosa to return early. She will be so lonely, 
poor child.” 

The tender manner in which he spoke of her 
touched me, and I reflected upon her dull and 


BV A VANISHED HAND. 145 

lonely life, for she was unable to speak English, 
and had no friends. 

“I will see you home,” I said, and presently 
we set out and walked together to his humble 
abode. Rosa was sitting as usual, bright and 
cheerful, ready to welcome him. She jumped to 
her feet, kissed him affectionately, ran to get his 
slippers, and bestowed upon him various little 
attentions which showed how great was the affec- 
tion between father and daughter. 

After remaining chatting with her for half an 
hour I returned to Little Alie Street, but judge 
my astonishment when I found that a crowd had 
assembled outside the house. Hastily inquiring 
the nature of the disturbance I was informed by 
a lad that a police inspector and several detect- 
ives had entered the place. Such intelligence 
naturally caused me a good deal of consterna- 
tion, but I remembered that it was no offense 
against English law to print Russian pamphlets. 

I resolved to put on a bold front and enter the 
premises. 

As I was forcing my way through the crowd 
to the door, the latter opened, and I saw Dobro- 
slavin and Bolomez in the custody of several con- 
stables. 


146 BY A VANISHED HAND. 

*‘For what am I arrested?” I heard Bolomez 
ask in his broken English. 

'‘You’ve already been told,” the constable re- 
plied. “Come, you’d best go quietly.” 

Neither of my two fellow-conspirators saw me, 
for I was standing among the crowd of White- 
chapel rabble; but as soon as they started to 
walk, I followed them to the Leman Street 
Police Station — now famed in history as the 
headquarters of the police when searching for 
“Jack the Ripper.” On arrival I hesitated 
whether to follow them into the station, but at 
length decided not to do so, lest I might run 
unnecessary risks and be identified as a frequent 
visitor at the house which had just been raided. 

Having in vain attempted to ascertain the 
exact nature of the offense with which Dobro- 
slavin and Bolomez were charged, I hurried away 
to Aldgate and took train to Edgware Road, 
taking a cab thence to Mostyn Road in order to 
report the misfortune to the Executive. 

With feelings of intense anxiety I sat in the 
Thames Police Court on the following morning, 
waiting for the two prisoners to be brought 
before the magistrate. Presently, after the usual 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 147 

applications for summonses and night charges, 
my two compatriots were placed in the dock. 

“Boris Dobroslavin and Isaac Bolomez, you 
are charged with having forged Russian bank- 
notes in your possession, and further, with manu- 
facturing them at No. 132 Little Alie Street,” 
exclaimed the clerk of the court. 

Forged notes! Impossible, I thought. The 
press was used for no other purpose than for 
printing revolutionary literature. The evidence, 
however, was remarkable. As I sat listening to 
it I could scarcely believe my ears. 

The first witness was a police inspector, who 
made the following statement: “A warrant to 
search the premises, 132 Little Alie Street, was 
given into my hands, and last night I went there 
with other officers. In answer to a ring, the 
prisoner Bolomez opened the door, and we at 
once searched the place. In the back room on 
the ground floor we found a printing press and 
printers' materials, together with a very large 
number of pamphlets and circulars in Russian. 
On searching the front sitting room, I found, 
concealed under the cushion of the sofa, four 
engraved copper plates, which have been used 
for printing Russian notes of the value of one 


148 BY A VANISHED HAND. 

and five rubles. In a drawer, in the same room, 
I found the bundles of forged notes I produce. 
They are all new, and represent a sum of eight 
thousand rubles. Two small tins of blue and 
yellow lithographic ink I found concealed behind 
a sideboard. I then caused both prisoners to be 
arrested.’’ 

In reply to the magistrate, the officer said that 
a very large number of forged Russian notes 
were in circulation, and the Russian Finance 
Department had obtained information which 
showed that they were being printed in London. 
A heavy reward had been offered, but although 
the London police had been endeavoring to trace 
the offenders, they had not succeeded until the 
present occasion. 

The other evidence was corroborative. I was 
dumb with amazement, and the two prisoners 
seemed too much astonished at hearing the ex- 
traordinary charge against them to make any 
effort to cross-examine the witnesses. At length 
the case was remanded, and I left the court. 

That day the Executive held a meeting to dis- 
cuss the situation, but no solution of the mystery 
was forthcoming, and the solicitor we employed 
to defend entertained little hope of being able 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 1 49 

to make a satisfactory defense in the face of such 
undeniable evidence. 

For three days following the arrest^of Boris 
and Isaac and the seizure of our press, I was too 
busy to call on Karelin, but I expected that he 
had seen the reports in the papers, with the sen- 
sational headlines, “Clever Capture of Banknote 
Forgers: Thousands of False Notes. ’’ On the 
fourth morning, about nine o’clock, I chanced to 
be walking along Farringdon Road, when it sud- 
denly occurred to me to call at Goldberg’s, and 
tell the old lapidary how narrowly he had 
escaped arrest. 

When the lad admitted me, I met his master 
talking excitedly with two men in the hall. 

“It’s a most clever robbery,” I heard one of 
the men say. “The thief was evidently an 
expert.” 

“Robbery!” I echoed. “What’s the matter, 
Goldberg?” 

“ My safe has been ransacked !” he cried 
wildly. “See, here!” and he pulled me into his 
private room. 

Bookcases "completely lined the walls, but one 
of these was false, containing only the backs of 


150 BY A VANISHED HAND. 

books behind a glass door. On pressing a spring 
it opened, revealing a great safe imbedded in the 
wall, and large enough for a man to enter. Both 
doors now stood open, and the place was in great 
confusion. The drawers in the safe had been 
sacked, the card-boxes which had contained cut 
and uncut gems had been emptied and cast 
aside, while papers had been tossed carelessly 
upon the floor. 

“What does this mean?” I asked, amazed. 

“It means that I have lost every gem I pos- 
sessed. They were worth twenty thousand 
pounds, and included the great yellow diamond 
which Karelin cut so beautifully. The burglars, 
whoever they were, gained admittance by the 
area window after filing away three of the bars.” 

! \ One of the detectives remarked that it was 
strange Karelin had not come to work as usual 
that morning, and at his request I accompanied 
him in a cab to Briton’s Court. 

My knock at the door was answered by an 
obese, slatternly woman, who, in reply to my 
question, said : 

“Mr. Karelin’s gone away.” 

“Gone!” I gasped. 

“Yes, he came ’ome yesterday about five 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 151 

o’clock, and an ’our afterward left with his 
daughter. They took a small box with them, 
and said they would probably be absent a month 
or so.” 

“He is the thief,” the detective briefly re- 
marked, turning to me. 

We searched his rooms, but found nothing to 
show the direction of his flight. I then accom- 
panied the officer to Leman Street Police Sta- 
tion, where I gave a detailed description of the 
fugitive and his daughter, which was wired to 
every police station in the metropolitan area. 
An hour later, information was telegraphed to 
the ports of departure for the Continent, to- 
gether with a description of the stolen gems. 
As, however, the days passed without tidings of 
him, it was evident that he and his affectionate 
daughter had succeeded in getting out of Eng- 
land with their booty. 

The celebrated case of forging Russian notes, 
tried at the Old Bailey, is ho doubt still remem- 
bered by my readers. The evidence for the 
prosecution was conclusive, the jury returned a 
verdict of “guilty” and Dobroslavin and Bolomez 
were each sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude. 


152 


BV A VANISHED HAND. 


Subsequent inquiries made by our party, 
together with an incident which occurred at Am- 
sterdam, revealed some remarkable facts. Six 
months after the two innocent men had been 
sentenced we unraveled the mystery surround- 
ing Karelin, and discovered that he was a gen- 
uine escaped exile, but not a “political.” On 
the contrary, he was accredited by the Rus- 
sian police as the most expert diamond thief in 
the whole empire, and for robbing a jeweler in 
Kovno he had been sent to Siberia with a yellow 
diamond upon his back. For many years he had 
had an affection of the eyes, but his blindness 
was only feigned, and the girl Rosa was not his 
daughter, but a clever accomplice. 

After his escape from the mines, he entered 
the Russian Secret Service as spy, which is no 
unusual course for criminals to adopt. 

The government, viewing with alarm the in- 
creasing flood of revolutionary literature emanat- 
ing from England, saw that the only way to stop 
it was to get the men who were responsible im- 
prisoned for a term of years. With this object 
the man we knew as Karelin assumed the char- 
acter of a blind lapidary, obtained an entrance to 
the house in Little Alie Street, and, when his 


BY A VANISHED HAND. 153 

plans were ripe, secreted the plates and forged 
notes in the room, first, however, giving anony- 
mous warning to the metropolitan police. The 
result was that two innocent men were convicted, 
and placed where they could do nothing to 
annoy the Great White Tzar. 

Although Dobroslavin and Bolomez are still at 
Portland, Karelin met with his deserts. He did 
not escape our vigilance, for our party found him 
in Amsterdam some months afterward endeavor- 
ing to sell the great yellow diamond which he 
had polished. He was arrested, extradited to 
England, and sentenced to ten years’ imprison- 
ment, while about half of Goldberg’s property 
was recovered. 

No trace, however, was discovered of the 
charming Rosa. 


VII. 

THE JUDAS KISS. 

Bah! How I hate tuberoses! Their odor is 
gruesome. There is death in their breath. 

She is very fair, but those flowers make her 
corpse-like. And her hair — what an ashen brown 
it is ! There is something about her figure, too 
— about her carriage; that sinuous movement 
from the waist that reminds me 

How heavy the scent of those tuberoses is! 

How it clings to the nostrils and stirs the 
memory ! 

Shall I never be able to forget? Shall I never 
succeed in drawing the veil? Tuberoses and 

Where did that whiff of chloroform come 
from? Is it my imagination playing me tricks 
to-day, or is that man at my side a surgeon, fresh 
from some murderous, horrible operation? They 
are all alike, those doctors, licensed to butcher. 

Tuberoses and chloroform ! Chloroform and 
tuberoses! Faugh! they go well together. A 


154 


THE JUDAS KISS. 155 

grim specter breathes the one and wears the 
other. 

I suppose it is remorse. How horrible re- 
morse is! Bearing you down, gripping you by 
the throat and strangling you until your brain 
whirls, your senses are dulled, and you see all 
over again scenes you desire most to forget. 

It is a couple of years since, yet how fearfully 
vivid it all is ! 

That pallid face, whiter than the white pillow; 
the closed eyes; the ashen-brown hair! 

By Heaven ! I see it all before me even now. 
A hideous reality. The denouement of a drama 
in our struggle for freedom. 

Mine was a delicate mission. My readers will 
probably remember that about two years ago a 
new Russian literary and social star appeared in 
the London firmament, in the person of Madame 
Vera Kovalski. Her sudden appearance in 
English society, and her ostentatious parade of 
wealth, aroused our suspicions that she was an 
agent of the Russian government, a surmise 
which was quickly confirmed, for one morning 
we saw in certain London daily newspapers a 
long letter signed by her, defending Russian 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


156 

bureaucracy, and eulogizing the humane Tzar 
for his paternal interest in the millions who 
called him “father.” 

From that day she was the object of vigilant 
espionage. Communications with the various 
Nihilist Circles in Russia elicited nothing regard- 
ing her past, until one day the Executive re- 
ceived a letter from the Kiev center, informing 
us that the woman who called herself Kovalski 
was the young wife of Colonel Paul Krivenko, 
chief of police of that town. Her husband, with 
his gray-coated myrmidons, had for a long time 
past endeavored to stamp out the revolutionary 
movement among the students at the University, 
but although dozens of innocent persons had 
been arrested and sent without trial to Verkhni, 
Udinsk, and Yakutsk, he had, up to the present, 
been unable to discover any members of the 
Circle proper. 

His wife had earned an unenviable reputation 
by giving information which led to the arrest of 
a dozen unfortunate students, who were brought 
before the special court at St. Petersburg, and 
evidently fearing to return to Kiev, she had mys- 
teriously disappeared. 

The portrait — taken from a lady’s newspaper — 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


157 


which we had sent, had been identified, and the 
communication warned us that she was in Eng- 
land for the purpose of acting as spy. 

Such were the circumstances in which I was en- 
trusted with the discovery of her object in visiting 
London, and the extent of her knowledge of our 
movements. Matters were again ripe for a fur- 
ther attempt to overthrow the Romanoffs, and 
the Executive had in preparation an elaborate 
and desperate plot which seemed likely to be 
as successful as that which — unfortunately for 
Russia — removed Alexander II., providing the 
astute members of the “Third Section" could be 
baffled and led upon a wrong scent. It was 
highly desirable that we should know what 
Madame Vera was really doing, and with whom 
she was in communication in Russia, therefore it 
devolved upon me to watch her. 

At frequent intervals signed articles and letters 
from her pen were appearing in the daily press in 
defense of the Imperial Autocrat, and endeavor- 
ing to prove, by relating personal narratives, that 
the prison horrors of Siberia, as revealed by Ken- 
nan and other travelers, existed merely in the 
imagination. She even went so far as to assert 
that “the condition of the much talked of for- 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


158 

warding prison at Tomsk would do credit to any 
London hospital.” 

This paid defender of Russian tyranny was but 
one of a number, each of whom has flourished in 
London society for a season or so and disap- 
peared as mysteriously as they came. Some had 
succeeded in performing the secret services for 
which they were sent out from St. Petersburg, 
while upon others had fallen the relentless ven- 
geance of the Terrorists. 

I was ‘hn society.” In order that my connec- 
tion with the revolutionist colony in Mostyn 
Road should not be discovered, I never visited 
them there. We had another place of meeting 
when I desired a conference. Indeed, I had 
found it necessary to remove my quarters from 
Shaftesbury Avenue to Dane’s Inn, that queer, 
old-fashioned abode of bachelors situated off 
Wych Street — the oldest and quaintest thor- 
oughfare in London — under the shadow of the 
Law Courts. There, in chambers, I led the rol- 
licking life of a Bohemian bachelor of indepen- 
dent means, had artists, authors, actors, and bar- 
risters for my friends, and was known to them 
as Pierre Delorme. Speaking French fluently, I 
had no difficulty in disguising my nationality. 


TfiM JtfDAS 1CIS3. tS9 

and assuming the role of subject of the French 
Republic. 

The rectory of the sleepy little Northampton- 
shire village of Kingsthorpe was a spacious old 
Jacobean house, hidden by ivy, with red, lichen- 
covered roofs, tall chimneys, and diamond-paned, 
mullioned windows. Standing back from the 
broad, white highway, a large, old-fashioned flower 
garden lay in front, while at the rear an orchard 
and a well kept lawn sloped down to the pictur- 
esque river Nene. The Reverend George Farrar, 
the rector, was a rubicund, happy looking man, a 
true type of the port-drinking, fox-hunting Brit- 
ish parson, and, with his wife and two handsome 
daughters, he was popular with all throughout 
his rural parish, from the earl at the Hall down 
to the most humble and impecunious cottager. 
Though he hunted with the Fitzwilliam pack 
and could handle a billiard cue with dexterity 
acquired by long practice, nevertheless, there was 
no cant about him, and he was both pious and 
charitable. 

It was at Kingsthorpe that Madame Kovalski 
was visiting during August, she having met the 
Farrars frequently in London, and dispensed to 
them the hospitality of her house in Lexham 


i6o THE JUDAS HISS. 

Gardens, Kensington. By dint of a little artful 
maneuvering and the exertions of a mutual 
friend, I also had contrived to make the ac- 
quaintance of the warm-hearted old rector, and 
had responded to his cordial invitation to “spend 
a fortnight at Sleepy Hollow,” as he called it. 

There were several other guests, but my atten- 
tion was devoted to Madame Vera, with whom I 
very soon became on terms of pleasant friend- 
ship. 

Vera and I were idling away the afternoon 
together in a punt up a romantic and picturesque 
backwater of the Nene. 

Behind us the ground rose, covered thickly 
with beeches and hawthorn. A small weir, with 
a few eel baskets of brown osier, closed in the 
creek. The water was still, and around us 
masses of white water lily studded the surface 
with silver stars. Beneath the deep emerald 
leaves perch and dace darted from time to time, 
or lazily sucked in some drowning moth or wan- 
dering May fly. 

It was very hot, yet beneath the protecting 
willow to which I had chained the punt there 
was a pleasant, soothing breeze that kept the 


TffE /[/DAS KISS. 

gnats away and made the afternoon quite enjoy- 
able. 

Vera looked ravishing. I had no idea that the 
woman upon whom I had to keep observation 
was so young and beautiful. Her broad, white 
hat, set back on her shapely head, threw out her 
copper hair and deep blue eyes. The olive 
surah that clung round her firm shoulders and 
waist outlined the broad curve of her limbs and 
fell in soft draperies about her little feet. The 
lace sleeves through which her white arms 
showed were a pretty idea, but far too tempting 
for a bachelor. 

I had found her not averse to flirtation, other- 
wise I should not have spoken to her as I did. 

“Vera, you are a pretty woman!” I said; 
“yours are the* longest eyelashes, I think, I ever 
saw! Your complexion is simply perfect, while 
the crisp little curls of brown around your fore- 
head take a copper hue in the warm sun I have 
never yet seen out of Titian.” 

“Why do you flatter me so?” she asked, laugh- 
ing and puckering up her rosy lips. 

She was lolling upon the cushions at the end 
of the punt, having flung down her novel heed- 
lessly. 


162 


fHE JUDAS ICISS, 


“I suppose I may be permitted to admire 
you,” I said, smiling. “We Parisians are con- 
noisseurs of beauty. You do not want to read? 
Then talk to me. Shall I tell you your voice is 
as sweet as the tinkle of silvery chimes? that 
your presence is as graceful and bewitching as 
the vision of an hour? Well, I won’t be silly, 
but as sensible as a man can be when he has for 
companion the prettiest woman in* England.” 

”How ridiculously you talk!” she exclaimed, 
with a merry, mischievous smile. “Remember, 
I’ve been married two years — and my husband — 
I ” 

“You are not devoted to him, Vera.” 

“How — how did you know?” she asked, start- 
ing. “Who told you?” 

“No one. But why deny it?” 

“I do not deny it. Indeed, I have tried to be 
good to him, Pierre, but he is almost double my 
age, so cold, so careless, and I hear so many 
awful stories of his dissipated habits that it is 
quite impossible to love him. We are, therefore, 
best apart.” 

“Poor Vera! I fear your life is not a happy 
one if one knew all.” 

“Ah, no, alas!” she sighed. “I’ll tell you 


THE J C/E AS E-ISS. t6^ 

something of it and you can judge, Pierre. In- 
deed, I have no one who cares for me.” 

She did not speak for some minutes; but her 
head changed its position from the cushion 
•where it lay, and by some aberration of mind 
rested itself quietly upon my shoulder. There 
was really no harm. She did not know it. 

There was such a sweet odor of violets wafted 
across my senses that I looked at the copper 
halo on my arm and wondered if it was not some 
rare orchid or tropical moss that had fallen 
there. 

She had turned her head away, and her hand 
was playing with the water lily leaves, which 
waved gently in the stream. 

Her skin was absolutely spotless. Little curls 
formed arabesques over the nape of her neck; 
and her ear, pink and transparent, tempted me to 
whisper in it words of love. 

There is no situation in the human drama so 
interesting as a tite-a-tete with a pretty woman ; 
and when that woman is married, with a griev- 
ance against her husband, the tHe~h4ete is all the 
more attractive. 

She told me a sad story: how she had been 
forced to marry Colonel Kovalski, but she did 


i64 THE judas hiss. 

not mention that the real name of her husband 
was Krivenko, or that he was an officer of the 
Imperial police. She merely told me that he 
held an important official position, and that, 
having discovered his unfaithfulness, she had 
left him and come to England, where she had 
no enemies to gloat over her unhappiness. 

A tear stole down her cheek as she related her 
narrative, and a sob escaped her. 

“There, do not think of it, Vera,” I said, 
endeavoring to console her. “Think of the 
charming afternoon. Look at that gorgeous 
butterfly that hovers over the stream ; look at its 
wings, now brown, now purple, with its orange 
tips and blue eyes, staring like Psyche at her dis- 
covered Cupid.” 

“Ah, yes,” she replied with a heavy sigh; “but 
you, a Frenchman, cannot understand one’s 
social position in Russia.” 

“Tell me,” I exclaimed with sudden interest; 
“I have heard and read so much of Nihilism that 
my curiosity has been aroused, and I’m always 
eager to improve my knowledge.” 

“Nihilism!” she repeated in surprise. “Why 
do you ask me about it? How can I know any- 
thing about conspirators?” 


THE JUDAS KISS. 165 

^‘But every Russian has knowledge of the Ter- 
rorists." 

*‘Yes, they are everywhere," she admitted. 
"And, indeed, I don’t wonder. Wrong a man, 
deny him all redress, exile him if he complains, 
gag him if he cries out, strike him in the face if 
he struggles, and at last he will stab and throw 
bombs. In view of facts recently brought to 
light. Terrorism ceases to be an unnatural or 
inexplicable phenomenon. Our government 
manufactures murderers." 

“Are you, then, in favor of the Revolution- 
ists?" I asked, greatly surprised at this expres- 
sion of opinion in such direct contrast to the 
views set forth in her various articles. 

"A Russian never dares to publicly express his 
or her political convictions. As for me — well, I 
have ceased to trouble my head about them. In 
a sense, I am an exile." 

What an admirable actress she was ; yet how 
charming! I had not been thinking of her as an 
accomplished spy, but as a woman who yearned 
for sympathy and affection. 

As the sun declined, the river grew more tran- 
quil, and the cawing of the rooks, as they went 
to bed, told that day was drawing to a close. 


i66 


THE jUDAS HISS. 


Vera offered me a cigarette from her case, and 
taking one herself, lit them both with the air of 
an inveterate smoker. 

What could be more delicious? A balmy 
breeze, full of the odor of meadow-sweet, a be- 
witching woman by my side, with nothing abso- 
utely to do but admire her eyes and lips, while 
she discoursed with logical clearness upon the 
struggle of the Russian people against the iron 
rule of the Great White Tzar. 

‘TVe heard of your articles,” I said, after she 
had been describing incidents in connection with 
the expulsion of the Jews from Odessa. 

“Ah, I write sometimes,” she replied. 'Tt is a 
pleasant and profitable amusement ; yet one does 
not always express one’s real political opinions 
when writing for the press.” And she laughed 
lightly. “Had you lived in Russia you would 
recognize the extreme danger of commenting 
adversely upon Tzardom,or critisicing the admin- 
istrative exile system.” 

Our conversation was interrupted by the clock 
of Kingsthorpe church striking six. Half past 
was the dinner hour at the rectory, therefore I 
unloosed the moorings, and, taking up the pole, 
pushed the punt lazily homeward, chatting to 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


167 


my fair freight, expressing the enjoyment her 
companionship afforded me, and amusing her 
with tittle-tattle until we stepped ashore on the 
rectory lawn. 

But before we had left our secluded little 
backwater, I had kissed her, and in return re- 
ceived a fierce, passionate caress. 

I had imprinted a Judas kiss upon her lips! 

Next morning at breakfast I was sitting beside 
Vera. We had just finished the meal, when the 
servant entered with letters. Beside her plate 
the maid placed two missives, one a tiny note 
with a superscription in a feminine hand, but the 
appearance of the other was a revelation to , me. 
It lay for a moment unheeded, and by a quick, 
sidelong glance I saw that the large, square en- 
velope bore the official frank stamp and double- 
headed eagle of the Ministry of the Interior at 
St. Petersburg. When she noticed it she hur- 
riedly folded it in half and thrust it into her 
pocket, without examining their contents. 

That evening, when we had joined the ladies 
in the drawing room after dinner, I noticed she 
was not with them. Leaving the room, I in- 
quired of one of the maids, and learnt that the 


i68 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


fair diplomat, wearing her cloak and hat, had 
been seen to cross the lawn in the direction of 
the river’s bank. 

Some mystic influence impelled me to follow. 

The summer’s night was still and starlit ; 
scarcely a leaf stirred, and the quiet was only 
broken by the distant rushing of the weir. Pass- 
ing out by a gate at the side of the lawn, I 
walked along a by-path, which ran through the 
meadows by the water’s edge. Large alders 
grew beside the stream, and in their shadow I 
advanced noiselessly over the grass. 

Suddenly I heard voices, and halted to listen. 

I recognized hers! She was speaking in Rus- 
sian. 

**Skajite-mne. Tchto dellut ? ” (Tell me. 
What’s to be done?) she was asking. 

“Act as before,” replied a man’s voice in the 
same language. “You received your instructions 
from the Ministry to-day.” 

“They might have spared themselves the 
trouble, for I have already completed my inves- 
tigations.” 

“You have!” cried the man. “What is the 
plot? Explain it to me.” 

“I have not yet made out my report,” she 


THE JUDAS KISS. 169 

replied coldly. “Besides, I am in the employ of 
the Ministry, not in yours." 

“Ah! my dear madame, pardon me if I have 
given offense. It was out of sheer curiosity that 
I asked." 

“Curiosity of a kind that would ruin me, eh? 
You would sell the secret to General Gresser, 
and claim the reward; but I am as wary as 
yourself, monsieur." 

“I beg madame’s pardon — she speaks too 
harshly. Indeed, your secret would be quite 
safe^ " 

“As safe as when, by your devilish ingenuity, 
you learnt of the conspiracy I had unearthed in 
Paris, and telegraphed it in detail to St. Peters- 
burg as the result of your vigilance. On that 
occasion who was rewarded — who was decorated 
by the Emperor? Why, you! As for me, 
I " 

“But you are my wife. What does it matter?" 

“Wife — bah!" she replied in intense disgust. 
“We have parted, and you have no claim what- 
ever upon me. By what right, pray, have you 
followed me here? Cannot I carry out this hate- 
ful work without your detestable espionage?" 

‘'But I assist you," he urged. “Besides, I — I 


170 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


sometimes think, Vera, that we might accomplish 
much better work if we combined our wits.” 

“With you — never,” she replied angrily. “It 
is true that I married you, but we have never 
lived together — and never shall.” 

“Do you forget that I once saved you from 
death?” 

“Was not that a husband’s duty?” she asked, 
adding, “I cannot stay longer; my hostess will 
miss me.” 

“But you shall remain and hear my proposal. 
I intend that you shall return to Russia, and live 
with me.” 

“Indeed! Then I may at once tell you, Paul 
Krivenko, that I hate you ; that I would rather 
die than be your cat’s-paw,” and she laughed 
scornfully. 

“You ! you speak like that to me!” he cried in 
rage. “I— I will kill you!” 

“Bah! do your worst,” she exclaimed defi- 
antly. 

“Not another word,” he hissed, adding a foul 
oath. “You’ll explain the whole of this con- 
.spiracy you have discovered, or — or I’ll wring 
your white neck, and fling you into the river 
here. Now, you have your choice.” 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


171 

There were sounds of a scuffle, and I heard 
Vera cry hoarsely, ‘‘Let me go! You hurt my 
throat — you coward! Help, for Heaven’s sake!” 

Creeping from my hiding place, I peered round 
the clump of hawthorns, and in the faint light 
beheld madame struggling with her husband. 
He was about fifty years of age, foppishly 
dressed, and wore a waxed mustache. I could 
discern that his eyes were unusually close to- 
gether, and his features were small, except his 
mouth, which was wide, his lips thin, the effect 
being vulpine. By repute I knew Colonel Kri- 
venko as one of the most cunning villains con- 
nected with the ‘‘Third Section.” He was a 
master of his craft, and, characteristic of the 
mercenary spy all over the world, he was true to 
nobody, not even to his employers, not even to 
his hatreds, for he had accepted service both for 
and against the Nihilists, both for and against his 
Imperial Master, the Tzar. 

I saw he was bending over his young wife. 
He had clutched her by the throat, and was for- 
cing her upon her knees, at the same time utter- 
ing terrible imprecations, and demanding to be 
informed of the result of her secret investiga- 
tions. 


172 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


Just as I had turned, intending to retreat to 
my place of concealment, having gained knowl- 
edge that would put the Executive on its guard, 
I heard Krivenko give vent to a fierce, guttural 
oath. 

Then a woman’s shrill cry rang out in the still 
air, followed by a great splash. 

Returning quickly, I looked cautiously behind 
the bush, but neither the man or woman were 
there. Upon the surface of the water were great 
eddying rings, momentarily growing larger, 
plainly showing that the dark stream had closed 
over some heavy body. I gazed for a few mo- 
ments at the circling rings, not knowing how to 
act. Nothing appeared on the surface, and the 
waters gradually resumed their tranquillity. 

Then I searched the bank, behind trees and 
bushes, and in every nook, but could discover no 
one. 

Shuddering, I retraced my steps to the rec- 
tory, and joined the ladies in the drawing room. 

Days passed, but Vera Kovalski did not 
return. Her mysterious disappearance caused a 
great sensation in Kingsthorpe and the neighbor- 
hood. Although .telegrams were dispatched in 
all directions, no tidings could be gleaned of her. 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


173 


The strange affair cast a gloom over the usually 
merry household, for everyone appeared to have 
forebodings that some unknown catastrophe had 
occurred, and the guests, feeling the solemnity 
irksome, departed, an example which I quickly 
followed. 

Before I left the rectory, however, I examined 
the whole of madame’s belongings, in the hope 
of finding something which might serve as a clew 
to the discovery of the “conspiracy” about which 
she had spoken. But the search was futile. 

When I returned to London and informed the 
Executive of the occurrence, a council was held, 
at which it was decided that every agency pos- 
sessed by our party should be requisitioned, in 
order to discover whether either Colonel Kriven- 
ko or his wife were really still alive. For the 
success of our plot — which was a bold venture, 
involving the partial destruction of the Castle of 
Schlusselburg and the release of the political 
prisoners confined there — it was of supreme im- 
portance that we should know if Madame 
Kovalski still lived, and, if so, the extent of her 
knowledge. 

Descriptions and photographs, which were cir- 


174 


THE JUDAS KISS, 


culated among our members, both in England 
and on the continent, failed to elicit any clew. 

Dmitri Irteneff and I, who worked together, 
were ever vigilant in the London streets for 
many weeks, hoping to meet her, while Grine- 
vitch continually kept madame’s house in Lex- 
ham Gardens, Kensington, under observation. 
We Nihilists have such a perfect method of tra- 
cing those who incur our displeasure that, when 
once the order is issued by the Executive, escape 
is hopeless, except by death. 

Colonel Krivenko’s body had already been 
found floating in the Nene near Peterborough. 

Having satisfied ourselves that his wife had 
not returned to her circle of friends in London, 
we directed our attention to other quarters. 

A heavy, thick mist was blowing on the gale 
which swept fiercely in gusts across the English 
Channel. The yellow light of the November 
afternoon had already begun to dwindle. No 
sun had shone on the dreary Sussex coast that 
day. The tide was out, and the wide, wet sands 
stretched from the cliffs to the selvage of white 
foam that flickered in the low light far off, where 
the waves broke in hissing spray. 


f^IE JUDAS kist 175 

in this tempestuous afternoon, Irteneff and I 
were walking along the top of the cliffs between 
Eastbourne and Beachy Head. Suddenly, as 
we rounded a point, we saw below a single 
human being on the level foreshore. At first it 
was merely a speck, traversing the sand along 
the margin of the wind-whitened sea. We 
waited for its approach, and, as it drew nearer, 
Dmitri took a small, binocular glass from his 
pocket. Having focused it upon the moving 
object, he quickly handed it to me, exclaiming 
briefly : 

“At last! We have found her!” 

I looked eagerly, and saw the form of a woman 
walking with her head bent against the roaring 
wind. I recognized the figure and gait as that 
of Vera Kovalski ! 

As she moved along toward Eastbourne we 
retraced our steps, and followed her to the 
Queen’s Hotel, where Irteneff, on inquiry, found 
she had been staying for nearly a month under 
the name of Mrs. Axford, and also that on 
several occasions gentlemen had called upon 
her. 

Two hours later I had transferred my abode 
from the Cavendish to the Queen’s, and having 


I'jC the judas kiss. 

duly installed myself in a room in the same cor- 
ridor as madame, I resolved to act promptly. 

I did not go down to table d'hote., but waited 
until she returned from dinner. I heard her 
close her door; then, placing a small vial in my 
vest pocket, and taking a clean handkerchief 
from my bag, I stole along the corridor and en- 
tered her sitting room without knocking. 

She had flung herself upon a couch-, but 
started up on my entrance. 

“Ah, my dear madame,” I commenced, as I 
closed the door behind me. “So I have found 
you at last !” 

“Found me!” she cried in alarm, jumping to 
her feet. “What do you mean by entering my 
room in this manner? I know who you are — 
that your real name is Vladimir Mikhalovitch, — 
that you are a Nihilist. I’ll ring for the ser- 
vants !” 

And she made a dash forward. I was com- 
pelled to act without hesitation. 

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” I said deter- 
minedly. As I uttered the words I took out the 
tiny vial and emptied the contents upon the 
handkerchief, which a moment later I held firmly 
over her nose and mouth. 


THE JUDAS KISS. 


177 


In a few seconds, and with only a long sigh, 
she fell back into my arms, an inert and helpless 
burden. 

Placing her upon the couch, I entered her bed- 
room and searched her trunk and dressing case. 
In the latter I discovered some letters of the 
Ministry of the Interior and some photographs, 
all of which I crushed into my pockets. While 
doing so, a thought crossed my mind that she 
would probably conceal about her person the 
more important documents. 

When I re-entered the sitting room she was 
lying just as I had left her. I placed my hand 
in the bodice of her handsome dinner dress, and 
as I did so a beautiful spray of tuberoses fell to 
the floor. Feeling paper inside her bodice, I 
drew it forth. It was an envelope, the contents 
of which I immediately examined. 

I discovered that it was the report for which I 
had been searching. Breathless with excitement, 
I read it through from beginning to end. Our 
plot was completely exposed ! Moreover, it 
gave names and descriptions of the Executive 
and prominent members resident in London, 
myself included. 

When I had devoured the contents, I placed it 


the judas Hiss. 

carefully in my pocket, afterward turning to cast 
a farewell glance at her. With alarm I noticed 
that in the few minutes during which I had been 
reading, an ashen pallor had overspread her coun- 
tenance. I laid my hand softly upon her breast. 

The heart had ceased to beat ! Then the ter- 
rible truth dawned upon me. I had adminis- 
tered an overdose! Vera Kovalski was dead, 
and I had murdered her! 

For a moment my head reeled, so overcome 
was I by the mingled odors of chloroform and 
tuberoses. But I managed to recover myself 
and creep noiselessly out. 

On the day following the inquest — at which, 
by the way, a verdict of “willful murder” was 
returned — the Eastbourne Gazette contained a 
report, of which the following is an extract : 
“The doctor made a most astounding statement. 
On making the posUmortem he found that the 
young lady who had been known as Mrs. Axford 
was not a woman at all, but a slim, delicate youth, 
aged about nineteen !” 

Is there any wonder why I have never since 
been able to endure the combined scents of chlo- 
roform and tuberoses? 

I can smell them now! Faugh! 


VIII. 

AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 

The incident at Borki, when the train in which 
the Tzar and Tzarina were traveling was wrecked 
and partially burned, will no doubt be remem- 
bered by the majority of my readers. Although 
generally attributed to a Nihilist plot, the perpe- 
trators of the outrage have never been discov- 
ered. It is true that thirty-seven persons of 
both sexes were arrested at Kirsanoff and 
Alkarsk and sent to the Kadainski silver mine in 
Eastern Siberia as a “precautionary measure,” 
but all were innocent, and notwithstanding the 
strenuous efforts of the Russian “Security Sec- 
tion,” aided by the police of the whole of 
Europe, the matter has always been regarded as 
a mystery. 

Now, for the first time, I shall explain the 
manner in which the attempt was made, the 
cause of its failure, and the means employed by 
the conspirators to effect their escape. 

Foreign critics — those in the pay of the Rus- 


179 


i 8 o an impei^ial sc/gap plum. 

sian Government — frequently stigmatize Nihilists 
as frenzied enthusiasts who seek to reform soci- 
ety and reconstitute their country by the aid of 
dynamite and bombshells. 

Nevertheless, although the means employed 
may, perhaps, appear reprehensible, yet, the 
majority of patriotic Englishmen are in sym- 
pathy with the cause of Russian freedom. Have 
we not every day examples thrust upon us of the 
tyranny and callousness of the Tzar? When the 
lord mayor, representing the city of London, 
petitioned his Imperial Majesty regarding the 
inhuman treatment of Jews, what answer did he 
receive? The representative of English liberty 
was snubbed; the petition was returned with a 
curt reply, that Russian Jews did not concern 
the lord mayor. 

Such an illustration of Muscovite despotism 
should be borne in mind by those who look upon 
Nihilists as murderers. 

Our object is to free our beloved country from 
the terrible yoke. In the great sorrow-stricken 
land, tens of thousands of our countrymen groan 
beneath the curse of infamous laws and the 
burden of unjust taxation. The Tzar on his 
throne, and his myrmidons who surround him, 


AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. i8l 

keep their grip upon the desolated country, and 
no man can breathe with absolute freedom. The 
police are infamous spies who will sell a man’s 
life for a few kopecks, the magistracy is corrupt, 
and justice a burlesque. Poverty, misery, and 
starvation are rampant, and happiness is un- 
known beneath the crushing weight of this mon- 
strous form of despotism. 

Nihilists desire to free their country from this 
curse, and would do it by peaceable means, and 
without bloodshed, were it possible. But it is 
not, and, therefore, the Executive are compelled 
to be merciless, and to strike, enemies of Russia 
without pity or remorse. 

To sweep the Imperial Autocrat from his 
throne, and to break his power, to destroy the 
corrupt ministers and infamous advisers by 
whom he is surrounded, and to bring enlighten- 
ment, peace, and freedom, to millions of honest. 
God-fearing men, women, and children in Russia, 
are the objects and aims of those who are so fre- 
quently designated as murderers. 

Yet the work goes on, silently, steadily, 
deadly. Each day brings the Tzar’s power 
nearer its disastrous termination; each day in- 
creases the hopes of those thousands of “political 


aN- imperial sugar plum. 


suspects” buried al^ve in Siberian snowdrifts j 
each day brings us nearer the dawn of a bright 
and prosperous day. 

Already my readers have learnt the reason I, 
Vladimir Mikhalovitch, loyal soldier of his Im- 
perial Majesty, became transformed into a revo- 
lutionist, and my case is but one of many thou- 
sands. In Russia one must be either a flunkey 
or a Nihilist, and most persons prefer to work for 
the cause of freedom. 

It was in a small room over a dingy and unin- 
viting-looking cafe in Gerrard Street, Soho — to 
which our headquarters had been transferred, in 
order to elude the vigilance of the spies of the 
Embassy — that there was arranged one of the 
most bold and terrible plots that the Terrorists 
have carried out since the assassination of Alex- 
ander II. 

The meeting was held hurriedly at midnight, 
and I attended. Paul P^trofl — who had that 
day returned from St. Petersburg — presided, and 
Tersinski, Irteneff, Grinevitch, and Bounakoff 
were present. 

“Brothers,” exclaimed PetrofT, after we had 
seated ourselves and transacted some prelimin- 
ary business, “our time has arrived. By the 


AJV IMPERIAL SUGAR. PLUM. 183 

exercise of due caution, we shall be enabled to 
strike a blow that will paralyze Europe, and 
remove the tyrant and his underlings. Shall we 
do so?” 

“Yes,” we replied with one accord. 

“Now that the lips of that traitress, Madame 
Kovalski, are sealed, we are free to act,” he con- 
tinued. “The Zemlid i Vdlia [Land and Lib- 
gi'oup in St. Petersburg have supplied us 
with information. The Tzar and Tzarina will 
leave the Winter Palace this day fortnight for 
Astrakhan.” 

He took from the papers at his elbow a large 
map of Russia, upon which was marked in red 
the route by which the Imperial party were to 
travel. It showed that they would go by way of 
Moscow, Riazan, Tambov, Atkarsk, to Saratov, 
and thence by steamer down the Volga. 

“You observe, brothers,” he said, “the train 
will pass over several unimportant branch lines. 
It is suggested by the Circle in St. Petersburg 
that a disaster should occur on one of these, as they 
will not be so closely watched as the trunklines.” 

“What kind of disaster?” I asked. 

P^troff ran his fingers through his long, dark 
hair, and fixed his searching eyes upon me. 


1 84 AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 

“We have yet to decide,” he replied. “Be- 
sides, as it would be extremely dangerous for 
any member of the St. Petersburg group to un- 
dertake the attempt, one of us will be compelled 
to put the plans into execution, receiving assist- 
ance, of course, from our brothers in the capital.” 

“There are many ways of causing a disaster,” 
observed Tersinski. “A charge of dynamite 
under the metals, as at Moscow, might prove 
effective.” 

“Or destroy a bridge, as we did at Elizabeth- 
grad,” suggested Bounakoff. 

“And wreck the pilot engine only,” remarked 
the president. “No, neither will do. The only 
way it can be done effectually is from the train 
itself.” 

“But how?” asked Grinevitch, who had been 
sitting thoughtful and silent. 

Petroff then entered into a minute explana- 
tion, producing plans of the various lines that he 
had brought from St. Petersburg, together with 
a sketch of the Imperial train, and a list of the 
suite and ministers who would, in all probabil- 
ity, travel by it. 

We sat together until the small hours of the 
morning, and at length arranged every detail. 


A AT IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM, 185 

Then came the momentous question as to who 
should be deputed to carry out the project. It 
was at first suggested that Grinevitch should be 
intrusted with the mission, but eventually we 
decided to cast lots as usual. 

We threw dice, and the choice of Fate fell 
upon me. 

A September night. The rain was falling at 
intervals from bars of ragged, fleecy cloud, and 
the lights of the city of St. Petersburg cast long, 
uncertain reflections upon the bosom of the dark 
Neva. The clock of the Izaak Church had long 
ago struck the midnight hour; the theaters were 
emptied, the last cafe had been closed, and the 
last 2/<?<//^^-inebriated workman had reeled home 
to bed. 

The rain plashed gloomily upon the pavement 
of the Nevskoi Prospekt as I trudged onward 
past the Kazan Church toward the Fontanka 
Bridge. I was making my way to friends who 
would assist me in my mission. Only half an 
hour before I had arrived at the Venice of the 
North, but I was no stranger to the city, al- 
though six years had elapsed since I had walked 
its streets. 


i86 


AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 


Already the rain had soaked through my thick 
traveling ulster, my teeth were chattering, my 
limbs ached from being cooped up in a close rail- 
way carriage for four days, and I felt generally 
depressed and uncomfortable. As I crossed the 
open space between the Gastinoi Dvor and the 
theater, my attention was arrested by the quick 
passage of a man, through the light shed by a 
street lamp — a short man, whose head was sunk 
between his shoulders, with sharp features and 
small sharp eyes — who glanced sharply at me 
and passed rapidly on. 

I thought nothing of the occurrence at the 
time, because I was fearless. My passport was- 
perfectly legitimate, stating that my name was 
Alexandrovitch Charushin, Russian subject, born 
at Odessa, and living in Munich; that my calling 
was that of chef, and, further, that I had re- 
turned to St. Petersburg in search of employ- 
ment. So completely was I disguised by the 
removal of my beard and mustache, and the 
application of theatrical “make-up,” that even 
the spies of the London division of the secret 
police would pass me by unnoticed. Therefore I 
felt confident of my security. 

Presently I turned from the Nevskoi into a 


AJV IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. ' 187 

dingy by-street, and having walked through to 
the farther end, halted before a confectioner’s 
and rang the private bell. 

My handbag was heavy, and I set it down 
until I should be admitted. 

In a few moments the door opened mysteri- 
ously, and on my entrance was quickly closed 
again, leaving me in darkness. 

“Welcome, friend, to St. Petersburg,” said a 
man’s voice in a low tone. “Walk forward, and 
upstairs.” • * 

I obeyed, and on gaining the landing, entered 
a small sitting room. The two occupants — a 
man and a woman — rose to greet me. 

“Here you are at last,” exclaimed the young 
fellow, ,who subsequently introduced himself as 
Ivan Liustig, medical student. “You must be 
hungry. Mascha, here, will get you something 
to eat.” 

I turned to glance at his companion. 

Our eyes met. Our voices mingled in a cry of 
joy. 

I had found my long lost sister, Mascha! 

In the hour that followed, we both related 
briefly our adventures. She had grown older, 
more matronly, yet still more beautiful than 


1 88 AJV IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 

when I had last seen her writhing under the ter- 
rible torture of the knout in the open market 
place of Mstislavl. As I felt the soothing touch 
of her hands, and looked into the deep blue eyes, 
I saw fathomed there a wealth of love, and 
patience, and pity. 

Sitting at table with Liustig and, Boris Soliviof 
— the proprietor of the confectioner’s shop, who 
had admitted me — I watched Mascha’s face as 

she chatted and drew tea from the shining samo- 

• % 

var. In repose, its expression was one of infinite 
gentleness; yet in a moment, at a word regard- 
ing the revolutionary movement, it would 
change : the rosy, childlike lips would meet, the 
fair cheeks glow, the delicate nostrils dilate, and 
the eyes would flame with an enthusiasm begot- 
ten of wrong and long suffering. 

She described to me her life since that day 
when we last met at Mstislavl; how she had 
been kept in prison for three years, two of which 
were spent in the Fortress of Peter and Paul, 
merely because she was suspected of political 
enthusiasm. She was never brought to trial; 
but, after the long years of solitude in damp, 
moldy cells, during which her health was shat- 
tered, she contracted typhoid fever, and was set 


AN- IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 189 

at liberty. Since that time she had allied herself 
with the Zemlid i Vdlia, and had been considered 
one of the most daring members of the 
group. She earned her living by fur-sewing, 
and was engaged to be married to Ivan Liu- 
stig. 

My real name had never transpired in con- 
nection with the work of the Executive, there- 
fore she had all these years believed that I was 
still in exile in Siberia, where she had heard our 
father had died while chained to his work in the 
Nerchinsk mine. 

I was relating how I escaped, when the open- 
ing of the street door by a latchkey, and flying 
footsteps on the stairs, startled us. 

The handle of the door was turned, and a thin, 
dark-haired young man dashed into the room. 
He must have sped quickly, for he put his hand 
to his side, and with difflculty gasped : 

“Quick ! They are searching. The police are 
already on their way here!” Then turning to 
me, said, “Hide! hide, for your life!” 

Mascha wrung her hands: “Fly!* Fly, Vlad- 
imir!” 

I was making blindly for the door, when Lius- 
tig’s voice arrested me. 


190 A AT IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 

“No— no time; they will meet you — you must 
hide!” 

“Where can I?” And I looked round the 
room in dismay. 

“The window — it is dark.“ Mascha spoke, 
pointing upward. The man who had warned us 
had already disappeared. 

My sister saw my hesitation. The window 
was high in the wall, and I could not reach it. 

“Take the bag with you. Jump on my shoul- 
ders,’’ gasped Liustig, turning his back and low- 
ering his body. 

Something of their anxious energy was lent to 
me in that supreme moment. I sprang with 
agility upon the proffered shoulders — I opened 
the window, and with a rush of cold wind came 
to me the measured tramp of the police on the 
stairs. 

As I crawled outside and closed the window 
after me, the fury of the storm was such that I 
felt it would sweep me from my insecure retreat. 
I clutched the window frame — my feet were on 
a sloping roof which seemed to move away under 
*them. In my desperation I felt disposed to let 
myself go, for the precious bag I had brought up 
seemed to drag me down. In a few moments. 


AJ\r IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 19 1 

however, I had found a secure resting place for 
it, and moving cautiously sideways, discovered a 
projection upon which I obtained a firm grip. 
Thus, by bending forward, I was enabled to see 
into the room, myself unseen. 

One cup had been hidden, and Mascha sat by 
the stove with a book in her hand. Her eyes 
were turned to the door as if in startled surprise. 
The picture she thus presented, with the two 
men calmly smoking cigarettes, was tranquil, 
innocent, and natural. 

In a moment five police officers burst into the 
room. Liustig’s manner was perfect. His eye- 
brows were raised. He looked astonishment per- 
sonified. Soliviof had gone to the door, and, 
with a polite gesture of the hand, seemed to 
invite the intruders to enter, search and examine 
anything they liked. 

There was an expression of mystification upon 
the faces of all the officers as their glances trav- 
eled round the room. Mascha had risen to her 
feet and stood with proud, uplifted head in mute 
protest at the unseemly interruption. 

The ispravnik^ or superior officer, stepped for- 
ward in front of Soliviof, and holding him with 
stern eye, evidently questioned him. Although 


192 AJV IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 

I strained every nerve to hear what was being 
said, the howling of the wind prevented me dis- 
tinguishing a single word. I could only gue^ 
what was transpiring by a close observation of 
the dumb show. 

Soliviof fixed steady, unflinching eyes upon his 
examiner and gave prompt replies, which appar- 
ently satisfied him. Liustig was submitted to 
the same cross-examination, but with perfect 
coolness leaned against the wall smoking his 
cigarette with a half amused air. Then came 
Mascha’s turn. She bore herself like an out- 
raged queen. I saw that her manner impressed 
the officer, who, when handing back her permit 
to reside, bowed courteously. 

But Russian officers are mostly impressionable, 
and this ispravnik would go through the same 
insipid genuflections were he conducting my sis- 
ter to the scaffold. 

Mascha sat down and was silent, but watched 
every movement of the men, who, inactive during 
the examination, now received orders to prose- 
cute a search. 

They left no corner, probable or improbable, 
uninvestigated, and while they were busy a 
sudden panic of dread seized me that before 


AJV IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 


193 


they went one of them might think of the 
roof. 

I drew my body up until I lay pressed flat and 
close to the side of the dormer window. Just 
as I had done so the window opened, and a 
head appeared defined distinctly against the 
sky. 

The eyes pierced the gloOm in my direction, 
but only for an instant. I scarcely dared to 
breathe. 

“There’s nobody up here,” I heard him ex- 
claim to his companions, then slowly the head 
disappeared. 

I remained undiscovered, and the officers pro- 
ceeded to other rooms to prosecute their search 
for incriminating papers, of which they found 
none. 

At last I heard their heavy tramp below in the 
silent street. It grew gradually fainter until it 
died in the distance. Then I breathed a prayer 
of thanksgiving, and grasping my bag, descended 
into the room. 

We all four uttered mutual congratulations 
upon having had such an ej^ellent escape, and at 
once set about preparing to retire for the remain- 
der of the night. 


194 AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 

Liustig, however, remained up in order to give 
the alarm should we again be surprised. 

“Pashol!” 

The engine of the Imperial train whistled 
loudly, the lines of blue-coated soldiers upon the 
platform saluted and cheered, and the long 
saloon cars glided slowly out of the great station 
on their way to Moscow. Five of the carriages 
were occupied by the royal party and suite — 
which included the Ministers of Finance and the 
Interior, as well as General Bieli of the secret 
police — while the sixth, which was next the 
engine, was the traveling kitchen. Among the 
servants in this latter were Liustig and my- 
self. 

How I came to be enrolled in the Imperial 
service matters little. With our organization 
everything is possible. It is sufficient to say 
that two of the chef's assistants were taken ill — 
perhaps purposely, for aught I know — and that, 
at the last moment, Soliviof supplied us to fill 
their places. In the car with us was an officer of 
the “Security Section” disguised as a waiter, 
therefore my companion and I were compelled 
to exercise the utmost caution. 


AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 195 

Hour after hour we traveled across that great 
flat tract of fertile country which lies between 
the Valdai Hills and the Volga. 

But our pace was slow, and such were the 
extraordinary precautions taken, that the whole 
distance between St. Petersburg and Moscow 
was lined by troops, who seemed to sustain a con- 
tinuous cheer as we passed. 

Arriving at Moscow in the evening, we did 
not break the journey, but continued over the 
Tambov line through Central Russia. 

It was about two o’clock in the morning. The 
upper servants had returned to the sleeping com- 
partment in order to snatch an hour’s repose, and 
there’ were only two others besides Liustig and 
myself in the kitchen. I had occasion to carry 
some wine through to the Imperial dining car, 
and I was met at the door by the waiter-detec- 
tive, nevertheless I managed to obtain a glimpse 
of the interior. I saw that the Tzarina had gone 
to her private saloon, and that his Majesty was 
seated with two officers of his suite, calmly 
smoking, and laughing over his wine. 

Returning to my small compartment at the 
extreme end of the kitchen car, I resumed my 
work of scouring pans, when suddenly Liustig, 


196 AN- IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 

with white, scared face, entered, closing the door 
quickly after him. 

“By Heaven, we are lost!” he gasped in 
a hoarse, frightened whisper. “Someone has 
placed it on end !” 

“How long ago?” I asked, startled at the posi- 
tion which I at once recognized as extremely 
critical. 

“I don’t know. Perhaps a quarter of an hour.” 

I waited for no more, but opened the door, 
and, affecting carelessness, passed to the center of 
the car, where there was a cupboard in which were 
stored our provisions. On looking inside, I saw 
on the lower shelf an object which I had con- 
veyed from London, and which was certainly not 
suspicious looking. It was merely a small sized 
loaf of white sugar, the conical top of which had 
been, during the day, broken off and used, while 
part of the original blue paper wrapping still 
remained. 

During the whole of the journey, I had exer- 
cised -the greatest care that it should be kept in 
a horizontal position, but one of the servants, 
probably noticing it rolling backward and for- 
ward with the oscillation of the train, had set it 
on end in a corner of the cupboard. 


AJ\r IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 197 

Stooping, I was aJ)out to replace it in its orig- 
inal position, when my fingers came in contact 
with some sticky liquid. 

I saw it was too late ! Closing the cupboard, I 
quickly rejoined Ivan. 

“Well,” he asked, “what can we do?” 

“Nothing,” I replied breathlessly. “We have 
but one chance.” 

“What’s that?” 

“To leap for life.” 

“From the train?” 

I nodded; peering through the window into 
the darkness, and suddenly recognizing a station 
through which we passed a moment later. “We 
are about eighteen versts from Borki, and close 
to the spot that was arranged. If you remain 
here, you know what fate awaits you,” I added, 
noticing his hesitation. 

The door was open, and the two men in the 
kitchen beyond were smoking cigarettes and 
drinking vodka. 

“Come,” I said aloud, so that they should over- 
hear. “We are nearing Borki, I think. Let’s 
go outside and see. I once lived close by when 
I was a youth.” 

He followed me. When we stepped out upon 


198 


A AT IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 


the platform at the end of the car and adjoining 
the engine, I undid the latch of the little iron 
gate. 

Our pace had quickened, and we were travel- 
ing through the wide, open country in the teeth 
of a fierce storm of rain and wind. 

“Follow me,” I said briefly, and without glan- 
cing round, sprang out upon the line. 

I have a dim recollection of sustaining a severe 
blow on the top of the skull. Then all was 
oblivion. 

On regaining consciousness, I found myself 
lying upon a grassy bank near the line, with 
Liustig bending over me. 

Day was just dawning. 

“Come, pull yourself together, Mikhalovitch,” 
he urged ; “we must fly, or we shall be discov- 
. ered.” 

Staggering to my feet, I rubbed my eyes, and 
then remembered the exciting events of the past 
few hours. 

“The train! Where is it?” Tasked. 

“How should I know?” he asked. “I leapt 
after you and it went on — to the devil, most 
probably.” And he grinned. “But we’ve our- 


AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 199 

selves to look after now,” he continued. “See! 
our brothers of Tambov have not forgotten us!” 
and he pointed to a heap of clothes that lay 
upon the ground. 

“You have found them, then?” 

“Yes, they were concealed in the shed yonder. 
We took our leave of our Imperial Master just at 
the right spot.” 

While he was speaking, he commenced to 
divest himself of his clothes, afterward attiring 
himself in the worn and ragged dress of a moujik, 
finally enveloping himself in a polushuba, or outer 
garment of sheepskin, an example which I 
quickly followed. 

This completed, we burned our passports, and 
making up our clothes into a bundle, put several 
heavy stones in with them and sunk them in a 
stream near by. 

From servants of the Tzar’s household we 
were transformed into two poor peasants whose 
passports were signed by the Zemski Natchalnik 
and allowed us to leave our mir and emigrate 
abroad in search of employment. 

During the whole day we tramped .along the 
white road, which led across a barren, desolate 
steppe, subsequently arriving at Arkadak, a quaint 


200 


AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 


rural town, where we were sheltered for the night 
by the village pope, who was a member of our 
organization. Facilities for our escape had been 
well arranged by the Tambov Circle, for on our 
departure on the following morning we found a 
country cart awaiting us at a lonely part of the 
road, and in it we were driven along the Koper 
Valley and through the fertile country of the Don 
Cossacks to Filinovskaia, a small station on the 
Tzaritzin-Lipetsk railway. 

This being one of the trunk lines, running 
right across the empire, we were enabled to 
travel direct to Dunabiirg, thence to Vilna, after- 
ward crossing the frontier at Wirballen and 
reaching Konigsberg, where we at once took pas- 
sage as emigrants for England. 

A dozen times during our adventurous journey 
to the frontier suspicious police officers exam- 
ined our passports, but they were always found 
in order, and we were allowed to proceed. 

On our way we purchased the Moscow Gazette^ 
the Donskoi Pchela, and other newspapers, in 
order to ascertain whether the Imperial travelers 
had arrived at their destination, but none of the 
journals mentioned the Tzar’s journey. The 
reason of this was, as we afterward discovered. 


AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM. 


201 


that all references to the affair were forbidden by 
the censorship. 

Fatigued and nauseated by the foulness of the 
steerage of our vessel, we at length arrived in 
London. 

Sitting in an easy-chair in the bright, comfort- 
able dining room at the house in Mostyn Road, 
I first learnt of the result of the attempt. 
P^troff handed me a copy of the Times., pointing 
to a brief report in the top corner of the page. 
It was a telegram from its Moscow correspon- 
dent, headed: “Te*rrible Disaster in Russia: Nar- 
row Escape of the Imperial Family,” and ran as 
follows : 


“A terrible catastrophe is reported from Borki. 
The Imperial train, with Tzar, Tzarina, and suite, 
which left St. Petersburg for* Saratov, has been 
totally wrecked and partially burned. The 
royal party had a most miraculous escape, for 
nineteen persons in the train were killed, and two 
of the servants are missing. It is evident that 
an explosion of some kind occurred, for all the 
carriages were completely shattered, and a deep, 
wide hole was made in the permanent way, 
which could not possibly have been caused by 


202 


AJV IMPERIAL SC/GAR PLUM. 


the train leaving the rails. Full details have not 
yet transpired, as an order has been issued pro- 
hibiting the publication of any information. It 
is stated, however, that all the Imperial servants 
have been placed under arrest pending an 
inquiry.” 

Liustig and I had been within an ace of suc- 
cess. 

Perhaps never had an explosive been more 
cleverly concealed as on that occasion. - The loaf 
of sugar was so innocent looking that the Tzar 
and his family had actually eaten some of it ! 
Inside, however, was a most ingenious contriv- 
ance — if it is admissible to admire mechanical 
genius in the construction of such machines. It 
consisted of a small American clock attached to 
two glass tubes containing liquid explosives of 
the most powerful description, the component 
parts of which, however, it is unnecessary to de- 
scribe. The delicate machinery was so arranged 
that, providing the loaf remained in a horizontal 
position after being set, twenty-four hours must 
elapse before the tubes were broken and the 
liquids allowed to come into contact with one 
another. If, however, it was placed on end, the 
clock in question would only run for a quarter of 


A AT IMPERIAL SC/GAR PLUM. 203 

an hour, when the tubes would be broken, and a 
terrific explosion ensue. 

This arrangement had been made so that, in 
the event of our inability to enter the Imperial 
service, we might smuggle it into the kitchen 
along with the provisions, in which case a quarter 
of an hour after the departure of the train it 
would have been wrecked. 

The failure of what was one of the most daring 
attempts upon the life of the Tzar could only 
be* explained by the machine standing in an up- 
right position, as had it exploded horizontally, 
it would have destroyed everything near its own 
level, and none of the Imperial family would 
have escaped. 

As it was, it exploded in a downward direc- 
tion, making the great hole in the railway track, 
and causing the loss of nineteen lives, a result 
which no one more deeply deplored than the 
Nihilists themselves. 


IX. 

FALSE ZERO. 


A BRIGHT July evening, a white, dusty Italian 
road, and a fugitive from justice mounted upon a 
stout pony, with an outfit consisting of a v/ell 
filled canvas valise and a revolver. 

The police were searching for me, and in con- 
sequence I had a few weeks before escaped from 
England, and set out upon a wandering journey 
eastward across Europe. I was in Emilia, 
lonely, tired, and dispirited, having left Piacenza 
at early morning and ridden on throughout the 
scorching day. It had, however, grown cooler, 
for which I was thankful. The-wind had risen, 
blowing softly from mountain and from sea 
across the plains, through the pines of Pavia, and 
across the oak forests at the base of the Apen- 
nines. 

Now and then a puff of blue wood smoke rose 
through the branches from charcoal burners’ cab- 
ins; now and then some great magnolia flower 
shivered its rosy needles upon me as I passed 


204 


FALSE ZERO. 


205 


beneath the trees; far away down below the Ave 
Maria was chiming from the church towers in 
the plain; above low rain clouds, fretted and 
edged with amber, floated near the sun ; over all 
the day was of that wondrous hue which is like 
the soft violet blue of the iris, and is clear yet 
mystical, as children’s eyes when they wake from 
dreams of angels. 

As I rode slowly up the long mountain road, I 
was overtaken by a horseman, who, light-hearted 
and happy, was singing to himself staves of con- 
tadine choruses. He rode up beside me with a 
genial, ''Buona sera, signoreB 

He was a fine looking man of about thirty, 
with a dark, pointed beard and waxed mustaches, 
and the handsome horse he bestrode was some- 
what jaded. We rode on together up the hill, 
and fell into conversation. He inquired where I 
was from, and my destination, to which I replied 
that I was traveling for pleasure. He told me 
that he was a vine grower living in Marengo, and 
that he was returning from a business visit to 
Cremona. When we stopped to water at a road- 
side spring, he asked me to carry a small pair of 
saddlebags, as his horse was tired out. I com- 
plied cheerfully, and we pushed on up the steep 


2o6 


FALSE ZERO. 


road. Arrived at the top, he took a cross road, 
remarking that he believed we should reach the 
albergo of Padrone Vincenti before the moon 
rose. 

I found him a pleasant, entertaining Italian, 
and being, no doubt, conceited, imagined that he 
found me the same. It was dusk when we rode 
up to a ruined villa, high up on the mountain side 
— vast, crumbling, desolate. It was one of those 
old villas of which there are hundreds in Italy, 
standing on their pale olive slopes. Those who 
are strange to them see only the peeling plaster, 
the discolored stone, the desolate courts, the 
grass-grown, lichen-covered flags, the broken 
statues, the straying, unkempt vines, the look of 
utter loneliness and decay. But those who know 
"them well, love them and learn otherwise ; learn 
the infinite charm of the silent halls, of the end- 
less, echoing corridors, of the wide, frescoed, 
wind-swept, and sun-bathed chambers, and of the 
shadowy logge, where the rose glow of the olean- 
der burns in the dimness of the arches. 

The old place had once belonged to a great 
family, but was now half ruined ; the few rooms 
remaining intact had been transformed into an 


inn. 


FALSE ZERO. 


207 


As we rode up to the porch, a slender girl 
of about seventeen, with big black eyes, dark 
hair coiled tightly and fastened with a Genoese 
filigree pin, came running round the corner of 
the house. She looked as wild as the goats on 
the mountain side, and my first thought was, 
“What a beauty she will make some day!” I 
raised my wide-brimmed sun hat, and asked if we 
could obtain accommodation for the night. 

''Non ne so nulla^' she said shortly. “But I 
will ask father,” and she darted into the house. 

A moment later an old man made his appear- 
ance, rubbing his hands and smiling benignly. 
“How are you, signori?” he asked in his patois. 
“Want to stop? Potete disporre di me. Here, 
Ninetta, call Giovanni to take the horses.” 

I had just dismounted, and started to remove 
the saddlebags, when a glance at my traveling 
companion checked me. He was gazing down 
the road, and listening intently. I saw an anx- 
ious look overspread his face. The next moment 
he struck spurs into his horse, and, without a 
word, galloped down the road in the opposite 
direction in the gathering gloom. 

Surprised and alarmed, I sprang into the sad- 
dle, and, as the sound of horses approaching at a 


2o8 


FALSE ZERO. 


rapid rate greeted my ears, I started off down 
the road after my late companion. My first 
thought was that brigands were upon us. 

Glancing back, I saw a nurriber of horsemen 
riding furiously down upon me. I heard loud 
oaths in Italian, and orders to halt. Without 
heeding them, I spurred on, and drawing my 
revolver, determined to sell my life as dearly as 
possible. The next moment a volley of shots 
rang out, and my horse stumbled and fell. 

Before I could rise I was surrounded by sev- 
eral gendar^nes^ and a rough crowd of men. 
Cries of joy were heard on all sides, and a dozen 
hands seized me in no gentle grasp. 

“What do you want?” I cried. 

“We want you,” replied one of the gendarmes, 
stepping forward. “Your name is Vladimir 
Mikhalovitch !” 

My heart stood still. The police had tracked me ! 

“Well, and if it is? What then?” I asked. 

“We arrest you for murder and conspiracy!” 

His words gave my arms a demoniacal 
strength. In a moment I had freed myself, and 
without scarcely knowing why I did so, I quickly 
pointed my revolver at a man who attempted to 
recapture me, and pulled the trigger. 


FALSE ZERO. 


209 


There was a bright flash, a report, and the man 
fell back into the arms of one of his companions. 

Cries of “Kill him!” “Shoot him!” “Hang 
him!” were heard on all sides, while I stood, 
revolver in hand, ready to defend myself, 

“Let’s take him back to old Vincenti’s and 
hear what he’s got to say,” said a tall man, who 
seemed to be leader. 

This proposition met with general disfavor, 
especially from one officious man who produced 
a long pair of reins, and leading the way to a 
spreading oak tree that stood near, exclaimed, 
“Here’s a good limb. Come, fetch him along.” 

But the tall man demurred and had his way. 
“If he can’t give a proper account of himself, 
we’ll make short work of him,” he said. 

I attempted to explain, but a pistol was held 
at my head with a peremptory command to be 
silent. My arms were then bound, and I was 
marched back to the half ruined villa and placed 
in one corner of the common room of the inn. 

The crowd then demanded wine, which was 
served by Vincenti. The girl Ninetta stood at 
the door looking at me curiously, and I thought 
rather pityingly. My trial then began. It was 
brief, and to the point. They had received my 


210 


FALSE ZERO. 


description from both the English and Russian 
police, and by the latter a large reward had been 
offered for my capture. They had tracked me 
thus far, and by the random shot I had fired I 
had mortally wounded one of their companions. 

Without admitting that I was the man they 
were looking for, I made up a fictitious story, de- 
claring my innocence. It was listened to incred- 
ulously by most of them, but among a few I 
thought I saw looks that encouraged me, and I 
wound up with an impromptu appeal for life, 
which I felt must touch them. 

I was doomed to bitter disappointment, when 
the man who had been so officiously anxious to 
hang me at once, rose, remarking with a harsh 
laugh: ‘'Young man, you can’t deceive us in 
that way. Come on. Let’s hang him !” 

Several rose and with loud, voluble oaths sup- 
ported the suggestion. My blood ran cold as I 
realized my imminent peril. These rough fel- 
lows from Piacenza felt perfectly justified in 
hanging me to the nearest tree, seeing that I had 
shot one of their number. What could I do? I 
gazed from one to the other like a hunted 
animal. 

“Surely you would not hang a man without 


FALSE ZERO. 


2II 


evidence,” I cried. ”I can show you letters that 
will prove who I am.” 

The tall man, whom they called Luigi, stepped 
up and unbound my hands. I drew forth a note 
I received while in Paris. It contained a cartc- 
de-visite of my sister Mascha, which fell to the 
floor as I drew out the letter. Luigi picked it 
up. 

“It is my sister’s picture,” I cried. “Here, 
read the letter, any of you. It will prove that I 
am an honest man.” 

Luigi gazed earnestly at the picture. ''Dio 
mio ! she’s a beauty!” he remarked. In my 
heart I blessed her pretty face, and only wished 
her there to plead for me in person. 

The picture was passed round, but opinions 
were freely expressed that she was not my sister 
at all, and more than one of the party urged that 
I should be hung at once and thus got rid of. 

Ninetta crowded in among the men and asked 
to see the photograph. Luigi handed it to her, 
jocosely remarking that he would marry her 
when she grew to be as handsome as that. 

She quietly replied: “Bah! E una vergogna ! 
and gazed intently on the photograph. “I’ll 
swear that’s his sister,” she added presently. 


2 12 


FALSE ZERO. 


“Fm inclined to think so too,” remarked Luigi. 
“I think we’d better wait and take him back to 
Piacenza.” 

At this there was a dissenting murmur, which 
grew so strong that my courage failed again. 
Suddenly Luigi turned to the crowd and cried : 
''Vi domando scusa. Let us give him a chance. 
Fll play him at dominoes. If he loses we’ll end 
his troubles. What do you say?” 

"Bellissimo, credo che sia magnifico ! ” cried one 
of the men, and the idea seemed to tickle the 
fancy of the crowd. They evidently had confi- 
dence in Luigi’s ability to play dominoes. Un- 
fortunately for me it was a game of which I knew 
nothing, and I told them so. ^ 

Ninetta was still standing beside Luigi. “Let 
me play for him,” she said eagerly. “Luck is 
always with me.” 

“Yes, let her play,” cried the men, evidently 
amused at the novelty of the thing, and also sure 
that the old Italian’s superior skill would win. 
“Yes, let Ninetta play for him. Give her your 
money,” they said, addressing me. 

I looked at the girl curiously. Her big dark 
eyes were glittering with excitement, but she 
was cool and self-possessed. Taking out my 


FALSE ZERO. 


213 


purse, whrch contained my wealth, about £^0 in 
fifty-lire notes, I handed it to her. 

The ivory dominoes were produced, and in a 
few moments she and Luigi were seated opposite 
each other, and the game began. 

It was a weird scene, and I had the odd feeling 
that I was simply a spectator, and in no way 
concerned. I remember wishing for paints that 
I might transfer it to canvas. What a picture it 
would make ! The quaint, old-fashioned, fres- 
coed room ; the smoky lamps shedding a sickly 
light upon the eager group around the table. I 
could see the face of Ninetta, and knew that in 
all probability my life hung upon her skill. 

She played in silence, except when she shuffled 
the clicking ivories underneath her small, sun- 
tanned hands. It was an even game for a while, 
until the old Italian began to win, and her pile of 
notes steadily diminished. She played coolly 
on, despite the comments of the crowd. She 
was down to her last note when the luck turned 
in her favor. She won steadily, gathering back 
the notes, until Luigi had scarcely any left. He 
began to turn up his dominoes cautiously, having 
evidently no desire to be beaten by a girl. 

I watched Ninetta s face closely for some sign 


214 


FALSE ZERO. 


of excitement, but none was visible. She was 
thoroughly self-possessed, and the fact that she 
held my life in her hands had no outward effect 
upon her. Fortune favored Luigi again, and 
they were soon about even. The men who 
crowded around the table grew impatient. 
**Siete un figiirino^ Luigi! Sta a voi giuocare. 
Bah! you’re afraid of her; you don’t bet,” and 
like expressions were heard, while the others 
encouraged my little champion. Her father 
came to where she sat and patted her upon the 
shoulder, remarking, “Ninetta was always a 
lucky girl.” 

They commenced to play with the double 
blank, and it was the man’s shuffle. The bet- 
ting was high. Ninetta glanced at her dominoes 
in an uncertain way and then at the few limp 
notes at her elbow. She had thirty lire less than 
he. The excitement was intense. For a mo- 
ment only heavy breathing could be heard. 
Then the bright-eyed Italian girl laughed nerv- 
ously and pushed the whole of the notes into the 
pool. 

Her opponent pushed in the rest of his 
money, breaking into a discordant laugh. 

“It’s the last game,” he said, glancing over at 


t 


FALSE ZERO, 215 

me. “Sorry for you, but you can get the rope 
ready. Well, what have you got, Ninetta?” 

She quietly turned up the double six, and one 
by one exhibited dominoes of high denomina- 
tion. He struck the table a blow that made the 
ivories jingle. ''Dio! Domino! Luck is always 
on your side; I’d have staked my last couple of 
soldi that I held a winning hand, but the double 
six was too much for me ! Come, comrades, let’s 
have some wine, and drink to my bad luck!” 

He led the way to the small bar at the end of 
the room, followed by the crowd and the gen- 
darmes, now appearing in the best of humors. 
Ninetta calmly swept up the notes, crushed 
them into my purse and handed it to me, remark- 
ing laconically, "Ho, guadagnato! You’d better 
take this and get over the Apennines to Ver- 
nazza, where you can ge‘t a passage on board 
a steamer.” 

“I don’t want it all,” I exclaimed. “Only 
what was in it.” 

“Keep it all. It’s yours. They’ve killed your 
horse,” and before I could say anything further, 
my fair protector had left the room. 

My first impulse was to put as much distance 
as possible between myself and the uncouth 


2i6 


FALSE ZERO. 


crowd, but on reflection remembered that there 
was no other house for miles, that I knew noth- 
ing of the country, and if I started out on foot I 
was liable to be attacked by the thieves who 
infested the district. I therefore put on a bold 
front and asked old Vincent! to give me a lodg- 
ing for the night. He picked up a guttering 
candle, called Ninetta, and told her to show me 
upstairs. We entered a large chamber that had 
evidently once been the ballroom of the villa. 
There were several beds in it, and on a table 
beside one she placed the candle, and was about 
to leave when I detained her. 

''Cara mia, Ninetta, I have not thanked you 
for what you have done for me to-night. My 
life is not worth ^rnuch, but I should have hated 
to give it up in such a manner. Is there nothing 
I can do to show my gratitude?” 

She laughed in an embarrassed manner. 
“Why, it wasn’t anything. I like to play; I’d 
have done it for anybody.” ♦ 

‘T’m sure of that ; but is there nothing I can 
do for you?” 

She hesitated a moment. “No,” she replied, 
“there is nothing you can do now. Some day, 
perhaps, I shall be glad of your assistance.” 


FALSE ZERO. 


217 


“You will always find me your obedient ser- 
vant,” I replied fervently. 

I grasped her hand warmly, and she wished me 
a merry Buona notteB 

I did not see her about the house next morn 
ing. The bloodthirsty party of the night before 
had vanished. I inquired for Ninetta, but was 
informed that she had gone off early to attend to 
the goats on the mountain side. The old Tus- 
can woman who acted as cook provided me with 
a scanty breakfast, and presently a peasant’s cart 
halted on its way to Vernazza. Arranging with 
the driver to give me a lift, I mounted beside 
him with a feeling of inexpressible relief. Half 
an hour later, as we rounded a curve in the 
mountain road, we came face to face with 
Ninetta. She was mounted on a mule and gal- 
loped rapidly past, her hair streaming in the 
wind. I had only time to raise my hat in re- 
sponse to a smile of recognition, when she 
passed, as I then thought, out of my life for- 
ever. 

Two days afterward I arrived at Leghorn, and 
taking a passage on board a steamer bound for 
New York, bade farewell to the sunny “garden 
of Europe,” which, I felt convinced, was a decid- 


2i8 


FALSE ZERO. 


edly dangerous place to sojourn, having regard 
to the curious circumstances of my capture and 
release. 

After two years of aimless wandering and hid- 
ing from the police I again trod Italian soil. 
Even in far-off Manitoba, intelligence had 
reached me of punishments imposed upon the 
gendarmes who had acted so leniently toward 
me. Two years, however, is a long time, and 
having a mission to complete for our cause in 
Italy, my personal appearance being so altered 
as to be unrecognizable, I returned. 

The long, bright day had drawn to a close. 
The west was a blaze of gold, against which the 
ilex and the acacia were black as funeral plumes, 
while in the quaint, crooked streets of ancient 
Nervi, people were moving, enjoying the bel 
fresco after the burden of the scorching day. 

The sun glowed and sank beyond the calm, 
sparkling Mediterranean, and in the tender violet 
hues of the east the moon rose. Crimson clouds 
drifted against the azure, and were reflected as 
in a mirror on the broad Gulf of Genoa. San 
Giovanni’s tower stood out clear against the blue 
sky, and its bells chimed solemnly. 


FALSE ZERO. 


219 


As the hour wore on, evening fell. Boats 
glided over the glassy sea; on the hills the 
cypresses were black against the faint gold that 
lingered in the west, and there was an odor of 
carnations and acacias everywhere. 

Noiseless footsteps came and went. People 
passed softly in shadow. The moonlight was 
sweet and clear upon the ancient tower and time- 
worn stones; in the stillness the little torrents 
made sad rushing sounds as they plashed toward 
the sea; across the moss-grown piazza an old 
monk walked slowly and thoughtfully. 

Leaving the osteria where I had taken up a 
temporary abode, I strolled through the quaint 
little half deserted town, and out upon the road 
which ran by the seashore toward old Savona. 
Entranced by my own thoughts, I had stood 
watching the shadows chase the sun rays on the 
dusky, purple sides of the Apennines, and the 
fireflies dancing away their brief lives among the 
boughs of the magnolias and over the fields of 
maize. 

A cigarette between my lips, I was heedless of 
where I walked. As I passed a row of small cot- 
tages and emerged upon the broad Corniche 
Road, the strains of mandolins played by happy, 


220 


FALSE ZERO. 


light-hearted fishermen greeted my ears, accom- 
panied by snatches of peasant songs. 

I am not a fatalist, neither have I any spirit- 
ualistic tendencies, but there are times when I 
am half inclined to believe in a distinct power — 
magnetic, if you will. 

I think I must have slept, as I have only the 
most vague recollection of my promenade. 

When I became fully aware of things around 
me, I found myself sitting in an armchair with 
my chin resting upon my hands. There was a 
dim, indistinct consciousness of realizing that a 
storm had occurred ; that I had seen a light and 
knocked timidly at a cottage door. 

A young woman dressed in peasant costume 
and very beautiful was sitting beside me. I 
glanced slowly round the humble interior; we 
were alone. Little by little I remembered. It 
was she who had opened the door and bade me 
welcome. 

Though sad, her face pleased me. Were it not 
for her light breathing I should think she was of 
wax. 

“How beautiful!” I exclaimed under my 
breath. 


FALSE ZERO. 


221 


She must have heard the words, for she turned 
toward me and smiled. 

“Why do you pay me such a compliment?” 
she asked. 

I cannot tell what air of recognition I found in 
that voice and manner. Instantly, however, I 
remembered a half forgotten period, like a queer 
dream ; a name was upon my lips, but I could 
not utter it. I stammered a question. 

“Well, well,” she said, amused, “they tell me I 
have altered ; yet — why, don’t you remember 
Ninetta?” 

“Ninetta!” 

Ninetta! Only this thought, and I fell on my 
knees beside her; our hands touched, and I 
kissed her slim fingers, declaring that I owed my 
life to her. 

“Do you remember when last we met?” I 
asked earnestly. 

“Yes,” she murmured, “but do not speak of it. 
Such memories are painful.” 

“If to you, none the less to me, Ninetta,” I 
replied, looking into her sad, wan face. 

Her lips quivered and tears stole down her 
cheeks. 


222 


FALSE ZERO. 


During a whole hour it was nothing but ex- 
pressions of surprise and vague regret. To the 
depth of our beings we felt the voice of these 
recollections. We were speaking of them, when 
suddenly she withdrew her hand and a red flush 
mounted to her forehead. 

“But you soon forgot me when you went 
away,” she said reproachfully. “And I have 
never ceased to think of you. It was strange 
playing a game of dominoes for your life, wasn’t 
it?” 

I rose and gazed at her. She was seated, her 
eyes riveted on the dying embers of the fire, her 
cheek resting upon her hand, appearing to have 
forgotten my presence. There was nothing awk- 
ward in the long silence that followed. We both 
felt too deeply for idle words. As we contem- 
plated our past, the wind whistled without, the 
thunder pealed, and the rain fell furiously. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed at last, looking up at me 
seriously, “I am foolish to speak so, now that I 
am married.’^ 

“Married!” I gasped in astonishment, at the 
same time noticing the ring upon her finger. “I 
thought this cottage was your father’s ; that you 
kept house for him.’* 


PALSE ZERO. 


223 


There was a brief silence. Then she spoke. 
Her voice made me tremble, careless ingrate that 
I was. She uttered the words without moving, 
as though giving utterance to the thought that 
possessed her. 

“I had no idea that you cared for me,” she 
said. “After you had left I was stricken down 
with grief ; madness followed, and I accepted the 
first man that proposed to me. I did not love 
him ; I shall never love him. And — and how 
can I? He is, alas! an idle ne’er do well who 
spends his days with low companions in the wine 
shops. It is I who am compelled to toil and 
earn money for him to spend in drink. Ah ! 
you little know how dull and hopeless is my ex- 
istence.” And she shuddered as if her heart 
were chilled. 

“But your husband — does he not endeavor to 
make you happy?” 

“Happy!” she exclaimed wildly, jumping to 
her feet and tearing open the bodice of her dress. 
“See!” she cried; “see here the marks of his 
violence, where he tried to murder me!” 

Disclosed to my view was her delicate white 
breast, disfigured by an ugly knife wound, only 
partially healed. 


224 


FALSE ZERO. 


“Horrible!” I said, with an involuntary start. 

“That is not all,” she continued, turning up 
her sleeves and revealing great blue bruises upon 
her alabaster-like arms. “ He wants to rid himself 
of me, to be free again ; and when the cognac 
takes effect he threatens to kill me.” 

“Why remain here and be so brutally ill used?” 
I asked. 

Shrugging her shoulders, she smiled sadly and 
replied: “If I were dead it would end my misery. 
If he knew that you had been here, his jealousy 
would be so roused that I believe he would carry 
his threat into effect.” 

“Try to bear up, Ninetta,” I urged. “Do your 
duty toward your husband and thus compel him 
to treat you kindly.” 

“I have tried. Heaven knows!” she replied 
brokenly, bursting into tears. “But everything 
is useless. Death alone can release me !” 

Her face appeared to grow a shade paler. 
With her eyes on the clock she seemed to 
listen. 

“You ought not to have come here. You 
must go,” she said. “Promise rhe you will never 
return.” 

I did not reply. 


FALSE ZERO. 225 

Bending over, her lips met mine in a fierce, 
passionate kiss. 

A second later we were startled by a strange 
noise, sounding suspiciously like a footstep upon 
the gravel outside. We strained our ears, but 
the sound was not repeated. 

“You must go,” she said. “Your presence 
would compromise me.” And she handed me 
my hat. 

With a force that I should never have sus- 
pected, she led me to the door, and after giving 
me a gentle push, locked it behind me. 

^'AddiOy' I murmured tenderly. 

There was no answer. 

Through the keyhole I saw Ninetta kneeling 
before the little crucifix upon the wall. The 
light had died out of her blanched face. 

Then I went forth into the darkness. 

The morning was chill and dull as I walked 
along the beach road until I came to the door of 
the cottage. I had spent a restless night; her 
misery tortured me, and, despite her entreaty, I 
was now on my way to proffer assistance. 

With trepidation I approached the door of the 
humble abode, and knocked. 


226 


J^ALSE ZERO. 


No one stirred. Everything seemed strangely 
silent. 

A moment later I noticed the door was un- 
latched. Pushing it open I entered, at the same 
time uttering her name. 

As I stepped into the neat, well kept room I 
at first saw nothing, but on glancing round the 
opposite side of the table my eyes encountered 
a sight which thrilled me with horror. 

Stretched on the floor lay Ninetta, partially 
dressed, the pale morning light falling across her 
calm, upturned features. The cheeks and lips 
were bloodless; the eyes, wide open, were star- 
ing wildly into space with a look of horror and 
dismay. 

Falling on my knees, I touched her face with 
my hand. 

It was cold as marble. She was dead ! 

In her breast a knife was buried up to the hilt, 
and from the cruel wound the blood had oozed 
and formed a dark pool beside her. 

She had been brutally murdered! 

My recollection of the events immediately fol- 
lowing this ghastly discovery is but faint. I 
have a hazy belief that my mind became un- 
hinged; that I left the place without informing 


FALSE ZERO. 


227 


anyone of the tragedy ; then walking many miles 
through woods and vineyards, I reached Ovada, 
whence I took train for Turin. 

The one thing most vivid in my mind was the 
terrible look of blank despair in the glazed eyes. 
I have never forgotten it. 

One bright autumn day I was wandering in 
quaint, old-world Genoa, that city which the 
bright-eyed, laughing Ligurians love to call “La 
Superba.” It was in festd that day, and all the 
ladder-like streets were ablaze with flags, and the 
many-colored fagades of the old sea palaces 
glowed in the fervid noon heat from the sapphire 
water. 

It was the hour of the siesta. The blazing 
sun beat down mercilessly upon the white, dusty 
streets ; the shops were closed ; and behind green 
jalousies the Genoese were taking their noonday 
rest. 

Petroff was with me. Together we walked on 
the shady side of the deserted Via Roma, and 
having crossed the Piazza 'Nunziata were passing 
the Palazzo di Giustizia, when a knot of persons 
talking excitedly attracted our attention. 

A conversation we overheard between two sol- 


228 


FALSE ZERO. 


diers aroused our curiosity as to a case in prog- 
ress in the Criminal Court, and glad to seek shel- 
ter from the heat, we entered. 

As the soldier opened the swing door of the 
cool, dimly lit court, I slipped inside with my 
companion. The judge had risen, and was 
standing solemn and statuesque. Above him 
hung a great gilt crucifix. He was uttering 
words in Italian, which caused a sensation it wag 
impossible to mistake. 

“Prisoner Lorenzo Bertini,” he said, address- 
ing the wild-eyed looking man who stood in 
fetters before him, “in this Court of Justice of 
his Majesty the King you have been found 
guilty of willfully murdering your wife Ninetta, 
at Nervi. I therefore condemn you to death, 
and in the name of the Almighty I call upon you 
to repent !“ 

I held my breath, and fixed my gaze upon the 
unhappy man. 

In a few seconds I had sufficiently recovered 
to ask a priest who stood beside me what were 
the facts. The condemned man, he told me, 
had confessed that the motive of his crime 
was jealousy. 

He was intoxicated, and having discovered his 


FALSE ZERO. 


229 


wife kissing a stranger who had visited her in his 
absence, he had entered the house and deliber- 
ately stabbed her to the heart. 

“What a pair of idiots!” remarked P^troff 
when, as we stepped oirt again into the sunlight, 
I told him what the priest had said. “The idea 
of killing a woman because she kissed her lover! 
Again, what a simpleton the woman was not to 
have been more wary. But — why, what’s the 
matter, Vladimir? You look as if you’d seen a 
ghost! Anyone would think knew the rustic 
beauty, and were the strange lover!” 

I started. A sickening sensation crept over 
me. My companion had little idea of the terri- 
ble truth he spoke. 

I pleaded that the intense heat had brought 
on faintness, and we retraced our steps to the 
hotel. 

That evening we left Genoa, and a fortnight 
later I read in the Secolo that Lorenzo Bertini 
had paid the penalty of his crime. 


X. 

THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 


Twilight was just setting in. Pale yellow 
sunset poured out its cold half light upon the 
roofs. Gradually in the depths of the London 
streets everything grew gray and dim. In the 
darkening sky the first star was already shining. 
Objects began to assume a disordered a.spect, 
and melt away in the darkness. Foot passengers 
could scarcely distinguish one another’s features. 
The city, as if worn out with the vanity of the 
day, had become calm, as if gathering strength 
to pass the evening in the same vanity and 
turmoil. 

Already the lights of the street lamps in 
Mostyn Road were springing up, forming long, 
straight lines, as I drew down the blind and 
flung myself into the comfortable armchair be- 
fore the cheerful fire. 

Taking from the table an open letter written 
in cipher, I read it through by the flickering fire- 

230 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS . 231 

light. It was addressed to Petroff, and ran as 
follows : 

“Nicolas Kassatkin, who will arrive in London 
on Tuesday next, is a trusted and valued mem- 
ber of our Circle at Novgorod. He has been 
twice imprisoned, first at Petropaulovsk, and sec- 
ondly at Schlusselburg, whence he has escaped. 
We are sending him to you because we are confi- 
dent that he can be of assistance. He is daring 
and enthusiastic, and speaks several languages. 
Being in possession of a private income, he will 
not need any financial help from the Executive. 
He will be the bearer of a note to you. 

‘‘Signed on behalf of the Novgorod Brothers 
of Freedom, 

“Solomon Goldstein, 
“Alexander Rostovtzeff.” 

I replaced it upon the table, and leaning back 
in the chair, smoked reflectively. 

Having called to consult the Executive on 
some urgent business, Petroff had asked me to 
remain and welcome the newcomer. By repute 
I knew him as a fearless revolutionist, who had 
taken an active part in several plots, which had 
for their object the removal of corrupt officials, 
and which had been more or less successful. 

I was plunged in reverie, induced perhaps by 


232 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

the dim, uncertain light of the fire and the sooth- 
ing properties of my pipe, when a loud ring at 
the hall bell aroused me. Almost immediately 
afterward I heard the voice of P^troff, Tersinski, 
and Grinevitch welcoming the stranger in Rus- 
sian, and a few moments later they entered and 
introduced him to me. 

We shook hands cordially, and as Grinevitch 
lit the gas I saw that the newcomer was a man of 
medium height, and about thirty years of age. 
His face was of a rather low type. He had 
deep-set, gray eyes, with a fixed stare, a large, 
fair mustache, prominent cheek bones, and fair, 
lank, unkempt hair, while his deeply furrowed 
brow bespoke mutely of long imprisonment and 
infinite pain and suffering. 

Removing his heavy traveling coat, he seated 
himself before the fire to thaw, at the same time 
taking a letter from his pocket and handing it to 
Paul P^troff. 

Presently we sat down to dinner together, and 
during the meal Kassatkin showed himself to be 
an entertaining companion and vivacious talker. 
I sat next him, and he told us of the progress of 
the revolutionary movement in Novgorod, de- 
claring that there were unmistakable signs of 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 233 

general fermentation, of an awakening of the 
public spirit, of patriotism, and of opposition, 
foreshadowing a coming struggle. He was bitter 
in his condemnation of the dark deeds of Tzar- 
dom, and expressed an opinion that if Russia 
could tell something approaching to the full 
truth about what is going on within her bounda- 
ries: the crimes committed in darkness, the mal- 
versations practiced by the officials, the real state 
of the exchequer, the desperate tricks of the 
financiers, it would inflict upon the Autocracy a 
more severe blow than many conspiracies could 
strike. 

“Tell us of your escape,” I said, after he had 
related the story of his arrest and imprisonment 
for carrying on propaganda among the soldiers of 
the Novgorod garrison. 

“Ah !” he exclaimed, his face brightening, “it 
has been a terrible experience, but I was driven 
to desperation.” Turning to P^troff he said: 
“You know the frightful horrors of Schlusselburg 
— the cold, wet cejk below the Neva?” 

“I have, alas! much cause to remember them,” 
Paul answered with a heavy sigh. “My wife, 
whom I loved so well, was imprisoned there at 
the same time as myself. The solitary confine- 


234 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

merit and the horrors of her cell drove her hope- 
lessly insane. She is now an inmate of the crim- 
inal asylum at Krasnoje Selo.” 

“Madness is the fate of the majority of prison- 
ers there,” said Kassatkin. “In my case the 
many months of absolute silence and lack of 
exercise drove me into a semi-insane state. In 
order to check the imbecility that was slowly but 
surely taking possession of me, I used to pace 
my damp, dark cell and compose verses. For 
days, weeks, months, I had no other occupation 
than the composition of poems, which I after- 
ward committed to memory, having no writing 
materials. This was the only mental employ- 
ment I had, and although I grew strangely light- 
headed, yet my self-imposed tasks prevented my 
mind becoming totally unhinged. An oppor- 
tunity for escape presented itself in a most unex- 
pected manner. A large batch of ‘common law’ 
prisoners had been sent from St. Petersburg, and, 
the prison being already overcrowded, I was 
removed from my cell and confined in a room in 
the fire tower. It thus happened that I was 
locked up in an ordinary room, with a window 
looking upon the road. It was rather high, but 
it was near the water pipe running along the wall 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 235 

outside, and there was a slanting roof of the 
lower story which could be utilized for the 
descent. I could not lose such an opportunity, 
and, in the dead of night, I opened the window 
and descended into the road, congratulating my- 
self upon a happy escape.” 

“Were you discovered?” I asked. 

“Yes, almost immediately. By ill luck a sen- 
try noticed me and gave the alarm. It was an 
exciting moment as I made a dash for the forest 
and disappeared among the trees. Half a dozen 
soldiers pursued me, but only a short distance, 
for apparently considering that they had a poor 
chance of capturing a fugitive in a forest, they 
returned to the prison for assistance. I con- 
cealed myself and waited. Presently about 
twenty mounted soldiers galloped past along the 
forest road. When they were out of sight I left 
my hiding place and walked on. My position 
was, however, critical, therefore I made for the 
Neva, as I could lose my way beside the 
river. I soon came to the water’s edge. By the 
opposite bank were some islands and something 
like a lake or arm of the river, near which I could 
see what in the fog appeared to be masts. Close 
beside me on the bank sat a group of fishermen, 


236 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

and a little way off an old man was doing some- 
thing to a boat. Having two or three rubles in 
my pocket, I went up and asked the old man to 
ferry me across the river. He consented, but 
asked, in a conversational way, why I wanted to 
go across. Remembering the masts, I replied 
that I had to go on board the schooner which 
lay in the distance. The old man looked at me 
wonderingly and suspiciously. 

“He asked who I was, and I told him that I 
was a workingman from Tichvin. The old man 
put on a very suspicious air and began a minute 
interrogation. I was at my wits’ end, and ready 
to make a dash for it ; but that was out of the 
question ; the fishermen were close by and would 
have caught me in five minutes. I resolved to 
take the bull by the horns, and told the man that 
I had simply made up the former story, and that, 
in reality, I was an escaped political prisoner 
seeking a hiding place. When the old man had 
asked me numerous other questions, he said : 
‘Well, I won’t ferry you across myself, but I’ll 
tell my boy to. He’ll land you on the island, 
and you can stop there until to-morrow night ; 
you’re all right so far. Only look here, don’t 
you go telling anybody that you have to go to 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 237 


your schooner. In my young days there used to 
be plenty of schooners there, but for thirty years 
past there hasn’t been a schooner near the place.’ 

“The old man called a young fisherman, and 
told him to row me across to the island. On 
parting from the man who ferried me, I started 
to explore the island, which I found to be very 
marshy. The morning broke wet and cheerless, 
and I spent the day in a disused hut. When 
evening set in, it became too cold for me to 
spend the night shelterless, and as I was suffer- 
ing severely from hunger, I wandered up and 
down the swampy forest looking for a village. 
By the time I succeeded in finding one it was 
quite dark. I knocked at a cottage door, but 
the' people would not let me in. I went to a 
second and third cottage, but with no success. 
Finally, I lost my temper, and addressing an 
obdurate householder, asked him where the s/a- 
rosta lived. ^ 

“The peasant directed me to the stardsfas cot- 
tage, and then slammed his door. I tapped at 
the door of the residence indicated, and it was 
opened by a woman. When I asked for the 
official I was in search of, she replied, ‘I am the 
starosta. What do you want?’ It appeared 


238 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

that she really was the starosia. The office was 
filled by all the peasants of the village in turn; 
and she, being an independent householder, took 
her turn like the men. I rattled off a wild story : 
how I had come for a holiday from St. Peters- 
burg with some friends; how they had become 
intoxicated, and, for a practical joke, had re- 
turned home, leaving me alone on the island. 
The female starosta evinced the warmest sympa- 
thy with my misfortune, gave me supper, and 
allowed me to pass the night in her cottage. 

“Next morning I hired a boat, arrived safely in 
St. Petersburg, and found my friends, who hid 
me for some time, while the police tore backward 
and forward, scouring the roads and country 
round Schlusselburg, and searching all the 
houses which appeared to them suspicious. 
When the excitement died down, I traveled as 
an ordinary passenger to the frontier, and have 
now arrived here.” 

That evening I took Kassatkin to live with me 
at my chambers at Dane’s Inn, and found him a 
pleasant, easy going fellow, whose shrewdness 
proved most valuable to me in the various mat- 
ters of espionage upon which I was from time to 
time engaged. We went about a good deal, and 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 239 

made many friends. I had always been consid- 
ered a fair amateur actor, and was prevailed upon 
to join a well known dramatic club which gave 
frequent performances at Kensington Town Hall. 

Many of my friends belonged to the club, and 
I found the rehearsals a pleasant and amusing 
recreation, inasmuch as the people with whom I 
was brought into contact were useful to me in a 
variety of ways. They knew I was a foreigner, 
but believed me to be French, and little sus- 
pected I was a Nihilist. 

One evening there had been a dress rehearsal 
of a new comedy which we were about to pro- 
duce for copyright purposes. I was cast for the 
part of an affected English curate, one of the 
chief characters in the piece. 

The rehearsal passed off satisfactorily, and it 
was nearly midnight when I left the hall and 
started on my long walk homeward. I had a 
good hour’s tramp through the West End before 
me ; but, as the night was clear and warm, I en- 
joyed the prospect rather than otherwise. As 
I walked along Kensington Grove, there was 
scarce a sound in the street, save the occasional 
tread of a policeman, or the hurried footfall of 
the belated pleasure seeker, breaking the stillness 


TttE Mystery of lady Gladys. 

of the night suddenly, and then dying away in a 
succession of faint echoes. 

Had any friend met me I should scarcely have 
been recognized, from the fact that I was still in 
clerical attire, having dressed myself at home 
to avoid trouble. I wore a long black coat of 
orthodox cut, black unmentionables, a clerical 
collar, and a soft, wide-brimmed hat, and was 
effectually disguised, though I thought nothing 
of the circumstances at the time, having fre- 
quently worn my stage clothes out of doors. 

I had walked for perhaps half an hour in silent 
soliloquy, when I suddenly became aware that I 
had taken a wrong turning, and that my footsteps 
had involuntarily carried me into that patrician 
of Kensington thoroughfares, Cromwell Road. 

At that moment I was passing a large, hand- 
some looking house, the outward appearance of 
which had an unmistakable air of wealth. The 
other houses were in darkness, but several of the 
windows of this particular one were brilliantly 
lit. 

Suddenly I heard something which caused me 
to pause. It sounded like a long, shrill scream. 

A moment later the door was opened by a 
man in livery, who ran hurriedly down the steps. 


Wr M)t'^Tkk)^ OR Lady gladYR 

As he confronted me he stopped short, and peer- 
ing into my face, said : 

“Sir, would you have the kindness to step 
inside for a few minutes? His lordship sent me 
to look for a clergyman, and it is fortunate I 
found one so near.“ 

“A clergyman?” I exclaimed, astonished. 
“But I ” 

“His lordship’s daughter is dying, sir, and he 
told me to get the first clergyman I could find.” 

The man led the way up the steps, and, dumb- 
founded by the sudden manner in which I had 
been accosted, I followed. 

He ushered me into a small, but very elegantly 
furnished room, and then went to find his master. 
Just at that moment I heard the footsteps of 
two other men, who apparently entered from the 
street and walked down the hall to the room 
which adjoined the one in which I was. I had 
hardly time to look about me, when the flunkey 
returned, accompanied by a strange looking old 
man. He was well dressed, but seemed out of 
place in the clothes he wore. He was small and 
thin, with snow-white hair, sunken cheeks, and 
eyes which had a peculiar luster. The manner 
in which he advanced to greet me was strange. 


242 7'HE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

for he seemed to glide noiselessly across the 
room. His face was colorless, and would have 
seemed almost devoid of life had it not been for 
his restless, glittering eyes. 

“His lordship,’’ explained the servant. 

I bowed, and the man retired. 

For a moment the old gentleman’s eyes 
shifted and roved, then he fixed my gaze with 
them and said slowly, in a squeaky voice : 

“I have a theory that everything may be pur- 
chased, that every man has his price. Do you 
agree with me?’’ 

I was surprised ; I shrank from him and de- 
spised and hated him. 

“Most things can undoubtedly be bought; but 
not everything,’’ I replied. 

He smiled sadly. 

“Of course, neither life nor intellect can be 
purchased, but the securing of any service from 
any person capable of performing it is merely a 
question of money.’’ 

I nodded approbation of this remark, wonder- 
ing what service he needed at my hands. 

“I am quite at my wits’ end, and I require a 
small service from you,” he said suddenly, as a 
look of blank, unutterable despair swept over his 


the mystery of lady GLADYS. 243 

face. He looked wearied and despondent ; I 
pitied him. 

“If I can render you that service I shall be 
pleased,” I replied. 

His face brightened and the haggard expres- 
sion vanished. 

“Thank you,” he said. “It is perhaps a 
strange request, still I can find many a clergy- 
man who will be only too eager to accept my 
offer.” 

“But I am not a ” 

“Never mind,” he interrupted; “allow me to 
explain. I am the Earl of Tallington.”j 

I gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise, for 
the earl was a well known figure in the political 
world, and until three years ago had been British 
Ambassador to Russia. 

He smiled as he noticed my astonishment, and 
continued : 

“I have but one daughter, who, alas! is dying. 
The physicians say hers is a hopeless case, and 
I desire that her last moments shall be made 
happy.” 

“Ah! you want me to attend at the bedside 
and minister words of consolation. I am sorry I 
cannot ” 


H4 THE MVEfEkV 6P UdV GLAbV^. 


“No,” he snarled, “she is religious enough, anc 
does not require you in that capacity.” 

“But surely a dying person, whether prepared 
for the next world or not, should see a clergy- 
man !” I said. 

“True; but Gladys is insane,” he replied. 
“You remember what I said a minute ago — that it 
is only a question of money to any man?” 

“What?” 

“Why, marriage.” 

I was puzzled. I could not comprehend his 
meaning. 

“But what do you want of me?” I asked. 

“A trifling service. You can perform it now, 
but if you refuse, you will always regret.” 

“Tell me what it is and I will give my 
answer.” 

“It is this. Some time ago, perhaps about 
three years, while we were living in St. Peters- 
burg, I became ill and was obliged to go to the 
South of France. During my absence my daugh- 
ter met a Russian, for whom she conceived a 
violent fancy. Since I returned and brought her 
home to England she has done nothing but 
mope and mourn for him, with the result that 
her intellect is impaired.” 


ftlE MYSTERY OR LADY dlADVR. ^4S 


“But will not the man marry her?” I asked, 
interested in the romance. 

“He disappeared mysteriously, and although I 
have made the most strenuous efforts to trace 
him, he cannot be found. Of course she would 
marry him if she could, but her mental faculties 
are so weak that she would marry anyone else 
and believe it to be him. But here’s the 
point ” 

He felt in his pocket, and producing a wallet 
took from it a roll of clean, crisp Bank of Eng- 
land notes. He counted twenty of them, each 
for one hundred pounds, and held them toward 
me. 

“These are yours,” he said slowly, “if you will 
consent to be my daughter’s husband !” 

The proposal fairly caused me to gasp. Two 
thousand pounds ! Did ever temptation stand in 
man’s path in a more alluring guise? I had but 
little money of my own, and with this sum I 
could do many things. 

It was a struggle between the Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde of my inner self, if I may so put it. 

Here was a dying girl whose passage to the 
grave would be rendered brighter by my marry- 
ing her ; who would die in a few days, or weeks 


246 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

at most, and know no difference. Nobody need 
be aware of this strange midnight adventure, or 
the manner in which I had been bought. 

I hesitated. 

“I give you my word that none know of her 
insanity besides myself, and that she is upon her 
deathbed,” said my tempter. 

Still I paused. I was wondering what could 
be the earl’s ulterior motive. Besides, I had no 
desire to enter the ranks of benedicts. 

“Come, decide. I have a clergyman ready. 
Someone shall make my darling’s last moments 
happy. Is not the money enough? Well, here’s 
another thousand. Will you accept it?” 

I summoned courage, and drawing a long 
breath, stretched forth my hand and grasped the 
notes, which I thrust hastily into my pocket. 

I had sold myself. I had offered myself as a 
sacrifice to Mammon, as other men had done. 

My purchaser opened the door, and called 
softly, “It’s all right.” 

“Is it?” asked a- clergyman who entered. 
“You are the affianced husband of Lady Gladys, 
are you?” he asked, addressing me. 

“Yes,” I replied. Was it not true? Had I 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 247 

not three thousand pounds in my pocket as evi- 
dence of the fact? 

“Come,” said the old man impatiently, as he 
led the way upstairs to a large bedroom on the 
first floor, where the light was so dim that 1 
could hardly more than distinguish the shape of 
the bed and the form of someone closely covered 
up in it. The footman who had accosted me in 
the street entered behind us, and we took our 
places at the bedside. 

Gradually, as my eyes grew accustomed to the 
semi-darkness, I could see that my future wife 
was lying upon her side, with her face turned 
from me. 

“Take her hand,” commanded the man to 
whom I had sold myself. 

I obeyed. 

“Proceed with the ceremony.” 

The clergyman droned off the service by heart 
with the characteristic nasal intonation. Prob- 
ably I faltered a little at the responses, but my 
dying bride never hesitated. Though her voice 
was low as distant music, her every word was 
prompt and clear. 

I gave the alias I frequently used, Vladimir 


248 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

Mordvinoff, and when I uttered the name I fan- 
cied that she started. 

'' Mojnolif (Is it possible?) she gasped in a 
strange half whisper, but she did not turn to 
look at me. It was evident, however, that she 
spoke Russian. 

The ceremony concluded, we were pronounced 
man and wife; I was the husband of a girl who 
was insane, and whose face I had never looked 
upon ! 

Was ever there a stranger marriage? 

The thin, wasted fingers which lay in my grasp 
were cold, and a strange sense of guilt crept over 
me when I remembered that I had bound myself 
irrevocably to her, deceiving her during her last 
moments upon earth. 

“Come,’' exclaimed his lordship, “let us go 
downstairs and sign the necessary documents.” 

We all repaired to the library, where the regis- 
ter was filled up and the signatures affixed, the 
clergyman handing me the certificate with a mur- 
mur of congratulation. 

A bottle of champagne was produced, and we 
each drank a glass, after which I was allowed to 
return to the room alone to make the acquaint- 
ance of my wife. 


Tllj: MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 249 

I entered on tiptoe, almost breathlessly, and 
paused for a moment beside the bed, trying to 
speak. At first my mouth refused to utter a 
sound. What could I say? Suddenly the Ni- 
hilist pass-word flashed across my mind and I 
uttered it. The effect was almost magical. 
Struggling, she endeavored to rise, but could 
only support herself upon her elbow, at the same 
time giving me the secret countersign. 

I was anxious to see her face, so I turned up 
the gas, afterward bending down to look upon 
her. 

It was a pretty, delicate face, but was cut and 
swollen as if by savage blows, discolored and dis- 
figured, a face in which were obvious signs of 
insanity. 

When our eyes met she started, scrutinized me 
closely, and flinging her arms wildly about my 
neck, uttered a shrill scream of joy. 

I recognized her instantly. While I was living 
in St. Petersburg several years before, she had 
been admitted to our Circle. She gave the name 
of Gladys Radford, but beyond the fact that she 
was English and that she apparently had plenty 
of money at her command, we knew nothing of 
her. At the meetings of the Circle we often met 


250 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

and had many a pleasant tete-h-lcte, I had ad- 
mired her, and more than once was tempted to 
declare my love, but I refrained from doing so 
until too late, for suddenly, one snowy night in 
midwinter, I was compelled to fly from the Rus- 
sian capital. Since then I had neither seen nor 
heard of her. 

Now I had discovered her under these extraor- 
dinary circumstances. 

She kissed me fondly, passionately, and I was 
about to explain our strange marriage, when the 
terrible light of insanity in her eyes caused me to 
hesitate. What use was it speaking to her? 
She did not understand. 

Taking a small bunch of keys from under her 
lace-edged pillow she handed them to me, 
saying: 

“Go to that cabinet over there and unlock the 
second drawer. In the right-hand corner you 
will find a packet. Bring it here and open it.” 

I did as I was bid and brought to the bedside 
a small packet of letters secured with crimson 
ribbon. As I untied the knot a cabinet photo- 
graph fell out upon the bed. I picked it up and 
looked at it. 

It was a picture of myself ! 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 251 

“How did you get this?” I asked eagerly. 

I have never ceased to think of you,” she 
replied. “I prevailed upon one of your friends 
in St. Petersburg to give me the picture. But 
there is another photograph there. Take it out 
and look at it.” 

Searching among the papers, I found the pic- 
ture she indicated. 

When I turned it face upward in the gaslight 
it almost fell from my fingers, for I recognized it 
as a portrait of the companion with whom I 
shared chambers. 

“Do you know Kassatkin?” I asked in aston- 
ishment. 

*‘Yes, I do,” she said, and, raising herself upon 
her elbow, she continued earnestly: “Listen, 
Vladimir! You are now my husband, although 
I know I am dying. Nothing can save me, and 
I shall not live to inflict upon that accursed spy 
the punishment he deserves. I know ” 

“Is he a spy?” I interrupted breathlessly. 

“Yes. When you had left St. Petersburg they 
admitted him into the Circle, believing him to 
be trustworthy. Soon afterward, however, the 
police arrested nearly the whole of the members, 
And had I not been the daughter of the British 


252 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

Ambassador I should have been arrested also. 
Inquiries I afterward made proved conclusively 
that Ivan Bielski — or Nicolas Kassatkin, as he 
calls himself — was an officer of the secret police ; 
that he was admitted to the Circle by means of 
forged introductions, and that through his instru- 
mentality over one hundred members of our 
cause were exiled.” 

“But what proof have you?” I asked excitedly, 
remembering how much Kassatkin knew of the 
conspiracy we were forming. 

“The papers you hold in your hand will show 
that what I say is correct,” she replied. Then 
she continued wildly: “Find the spy. Let death 
be his reward for ingenuity and double dealing. 
Kill him ! Promise me ! Do not let him send 
other innocent members of the cause to Siberia !” 
Clutching my hand, she added, “Tell me that you 
will avenge the deaths of the men and women 
who fell victims to his treachery. Promise me!” 

“I promise,” I replied. “If he is a spy he 
shall die.” 

“Ah ! At last he will receive his well merited 
punishment. And he had the audacity to love 
me!” She uttered the words feebly, sinking 
wearily back upon her pillow. 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 253 

Her face had changed, becoming paler and 
more drawn. She did not move, and I stood 
watching, not knowing what to do. The excite- 
ment had proved too much for her. 

Suddenly she opened her eyes, and whispered 
my name. Then she gave vent to a long, deep- 
drawn sigh, shuddered, and lay strangely still. 

I knew then that my wife had passed away. 

I was kissing her pale lips and closing the glaz- 
ing eyes, when the footman entered hurriedly, 
and whispered that I was required in the library 
at once. He dashed downstairs, and I followed. 
On going into the room a sight met my gaze 
which I shall never forget, for lying stretched 
upon the couch was his lordship, writhing in the 
horrible agonies of death from poisoning. A 
small bottle standing upon the table and a 
broken champagne glass had but one tale to tell. 

He had taken his own life ! 

The clergyman was kneeling by his side, but in 
a few moments the old earl gave a final gasp, and 
ere I had realized it, he passed to the land which 
lies beyond human ken. 

I learned from the doctor who attended that 
the Earl of Tallington had, since relinquishing 
his post at St. Petersburg, showed signs of mad- 


254 THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 

ness. During a fit of insanity, a year before, he 
had struck down his daughter, inflicting such 
injuries that she had been an invalid ever since. 
Her mind, too, became unhinged. It was sup- 
posed that, seized by sudden remorse, his lord- 
ship had drunk the fatal draught. 

Morning was breaking, cold and gray, as I 
ascended the stairs to my chambers. Opening 
the door with a latchkey, I entered the sitting 
room. The lamp was still burning, and there 
were evidences that Kassatkin had not returned. 

Upon the table was a note addressed to me. 

I tore it open and read as follows: 

“In the matter upon which we were engaged 
last week I have made an important discovery, 
which necessitates me leaving for the continent 
to-night. Will let you know shortly where I 
am.” 

It suddenly crossed my mind that, having 
ascertained the details of the plot we were pre- 
paring, he had left for St. Petersburg to give infor- 
mation to the police. 

That morning I placed the papers my dead 
wife had given me before the Executive, and the 


THE MYSTERY OF LADY GLADYS. 255 

same evening Tersinski and I, having discovered 
the route the spy had taken, were on our way to 
the continent, following the man upon whom the 
death sentence of our order had been passed. 

A week later the special evening edition of the 
Globe contained the following among its general 
foreign news: 

“A Cologne correspondent reports a mysteri- 
ous murder that has created a good deal of a sen- 
sation in Germany. Yesterday the body of a 
man was discovered floating in the Rhine near 
Bonn, and on being taken from the water it was 
found that the man had been stabbed to the 
heart, and upon his face were two deep cuts in 
the shape of a cross. From papers found upon 
him, it appears that the name of the murdered 
man was Nicolas Kassatkin, a Russian, who has 
recently been living in London.” 


XI. 

AN IKON OATH. 

Ivan Liustig was not like anyone else. 
Stevenson has described the bright twenty-year- 
old youth of fiction as a mixture of shyness and 
coarseness. But Ivan was entirely poetical, and 
radiantly bright ; and yet he was neither shy nor 
assuredly coarse. 

His friends of the St. Petersburg Circle were 
conscious of some lack of foundation beneath 
the graceful superstructure of his character. 
But they did not array themselves, as his critics, 
against him. They smiled at him, but they 
loved him. And he won love and an indulgent 
admiration as flowers and butterflies do. The 
drones are better husbandmen. But the butter- 
fly has its place in nature. 

Since he had escaped with me after the wreck- 
ing of the Tzar’s train near Borki, he had re- 
turned to Russia, whither I had also gone with 
Bounakoff upon a secret quest. 

256 


AJ\r IKON OATH. 


257 


When, in St. Petersburg, I heard of him as 
investigating psychical phenomena, as encoiled in 
psychology, it seemed another versatile phase at 
which again to smile. For Ivan, who was an 
enthusiastic medical student, was sure to have, 
here, as elsewhere, some exceptional experiences; 
was sure to pour out the recital of the same, in 
due time, to his chosen associates with a fullness 
of picturesque detail that shed a new light on all 
the questions involved. But when it appeared 
that it was not psychical research in the abstract, 
but a feminine psychist in the concrete, that held 
Ivan Liustig in thrall, there was an altered feeling, 
inducing a graver view, especially when I learned 
that he had forsaken my sister Mascha, whom he 
had been engaged to marry. 

“I hope all this we hear is an airy joke," I said 
to him one day after a meeting of the Circle. 
He honored me, as his elder, with some defer- 
ence in his friendship; and the quality of the 
latter sentiment had been exceptionally warm 
between us since our journey together in the 
Imperial train. 

He looked at me steadily with his handsome 
blue eyes. 

“What do you mean?" 


258 


AN IKON OA TH. 


“You must know well enough. They say that 
you are spending all your leisure with some 
shady female, who, at one and the same time, 
expounds spirits, magnetic psychology, and ex- 
ploits the pockets of the credulous.” 

To my surprise, he turned very pale. 

“Were you not one of my best friends, I’d 
knock you down for that.” 

“By the Virgin, you’re lost!” I cried. “Think; 
what will Mascha do when she learns the truth?” 

I was about to turn away on my heel, but he 
drew me back. His anger had been appeased. 

“Don’t mind me,” he said in his tractable, nor- 
mal tone. “But don’t join the herd of fools who 
won’t understand. I looked for sympathy and 
comprehension from you. You can’t judge till 
you know her — till you know this wonderful, 
most wonderful woman.” 

“I dare say,” I assented dryly. “Who, how- 
ever, and what is she?” 

“She is half Russian, half German, and wholly 
a citizen of the world.” 

“Ah! I know the type ” 

“You know nothing!” he exclaimed, flushing 
angrily. “But” — he shrugged his shoulders — 
“the prejudices of the world count for — what? 


AJV IKON OATH. 259 

Nothing at all. The curse of the Philistine is his 
Philistinism.’' 

“Very well. Forget what I have said. I ap- 
proach the Russo-German in the properly reveren- 
tial spirit to apprehend the phenomena. They 
say she is young and pretty. And what, espe- 
cially, does she do?” 

”You may see, some day.” His gaze grew 
bright, soft, and vague, as one who catches a 
glimpse of the floating garments of supernatural 
mysteries. “Ah! she is wonderful. She is 
charming !” 

It was shortly after this that I obtained an 
introduction to Ivan Liustig’s goddess. She 
lived in the Vosseressenski quarter, on the third 
floor of a tall house, but with a degree of relative 
elegance that argued either some personal means 
or a thriving trade. I had expected to see an 
electric, opalescent person, with rouged face and 
a Cleopatra manner calculated to enmesh the un- 
wary. I met instead a little blond woman with 
great eyes, soft as black pearls and limpid as a 
brook. I had understood from Iv^an that she 
had been married and widowed. But with her 
loops of flaxen braid tied in her neck she looked 
no more matured than a schoolgirl. Her dress, 


26 o 


AN ^ IKON OATH. 


from head to foot, was tasteful and pleasing, but 
of the simplest. And she had a way, after she 
had greeted you, of sitting upon the edge of 
chairs and sofas and listening in a grave-eyed 
confidence that made you think of some preco- 
cious child forced, through the loss of its natural 
protectors, to face the blackness of an unfamiliar 
world alone. She was introduced as Wanda 
Waluiski. 

“Your friend tells me that you are interested 
in psychical phenomena,” she said to me after a 
few moments. “But I fear I can show you noth- 
ing much to-night. The conditions do not seem 
favorable, somehow.” 

I made a murmur of regret. 

“Are these things dependent on atmospheric 
conditions?” 

“To a certain degree. But other obstacles 
step in — opposing mental attitudes and cur- 
rents.” 

She passed her hand over her eyes as she 
spoke, as if to rid herself of some invisible op- 
pression. 

“A common charlatan, after all,” said I to my- 
self. “She sees I am skeptical of the validity of 


AAT IKON OA TH. 


261 


her claims, and that prevents the full operation of 
the trickery.” 

Ivan ardently assured her that it was of no 
moment ; that w€ would return. 

Wanda was silent for an instant, and I had 
begun to think her manner at least peculiar when 
she turned her eyes full upon me. 

“I ought not to let you come here again,” was 
her extraordinary remark. “I have been warned 
this moment, I was warned the moment you 
entered the room, that unhappiness must come to 
me through you. But one’s earthly fate cannot 
be fought against. My forbidding you to come 
here would not delay or turn aside the onward 
march of events.” 

“I assure you I have no wish to inflict an un- 
welcome presence upon you,” I hastened to 
explain. 

“No — no,” her pale, childlike face was over- 
spread with a strange air of weariness. “All we 
can do is of no use. Come. Come when you 
choose.” 

When we were in the street Ivan broke out in 
apologies, urging that I should not feel myself 
insulted. 


262 


AN IKON OATH. 


“I do not feel insulted,” I said. “In fact, I 
find Madame Waluiski much more interesting 
than I did' before.” 

And this was the truth. If she were an impos- 
tor, an adventuress, I had been impressed with 
the fact that she was one clever enough to be 
worthy of study. But again, how doubt a per- 
sonality apparently so unlike that of a trickster, 
a face so transparent, a whole being so unusual, 
so ingenuous? 

I knew not what to think. 

The scene was, perhaps, one of the most pic- 
turesque in St. Petersburg. 

The dust and heat of the August day had 
taken the energy out of Bounakoff and I, and we 
were sitting at dinner in the beautiful Gardens of 
Catherinenhoff. With the sunset a cool wind 
had sprung up from the Neva, rendering Andre- 
jeff’s Restaurant an exceedingly pleasant retreat 
under the clear sky and brilliant stars. 

At one of the small al fresco tables sat Bou- 
nakoff, Mascha, and myself, a merry trio, in the 
full enjoyment of our meal. It was a band 
hight, and those who have visited the Russian 
capital know how upon such occasions the Gar- 


AN IKON OATH. 


263 


dens are illuminated and the tables filled by a 
fashionable throng of men and women, mostly in 
evening dress. 

Ivan was sitting at the next table, and we had 
invited him to join us, but as he had already fin- 
ished his dinner he was waiting until we com- 
menced to smoke. 

Those of my readers who have refreshed them- 
selves at Andrejeff’s will remember that one of 
the tables is placed against a large trellis, covered 
with tangled masses of creepers, which screens it 
from the gaze of passers-by, and makes it a very 
cozy nook. It was here that Ivan sat alone, con- 
templatively smoking a cigarette and sipping 
from the glass of port beside him, while at our 
table we chaffed and laughed merrily together. 

Conversation was general, and the hearty 
laughter and gay tones of French voices mingled 
with the guttural exclamations of the Tzar’s sub- 
jects as they walked under the linden trees 
beside the lake, while ever and anon a burst of 
military music reached us from over the water. 

As I sat watching the crowd of promenaders, 
two figures that passed engaged my attention. 
Why, I cannot tell. One was that of a lady, ap- 
parently about thirty-five years of age, good 


264 


AN IKON OATH. 


looking, well preserved, and attired fashionably in 
a black, jet-trimmed evening dress, with a lace 
mantilla over her head. She was alone, and 
walked past slowly and deliberately, at the same 
time casting a searching glance in our direction. 
In the dim half light I could see she was unde- 
niably handsome, but in a few moments she had 
passed out of my sight, and joining in my com- 
panions’ conversation I had forgotten her. 

The other figure, which followed some minutes 
later, was that of Wanda Waluiski. 

A few minutes later a lad, son of the dvor7iik 
at Ivan’s lodging, brought him some letters, 
being accompanied by his sister, a bright little 
girl of thirteen. The student complimented the 
child on the way she was dressed, patted 'her 
upon the cheek, and gave her some grapes, re- 
warding the lad with a few kopecks. Then the 
girl laughed pleasantly, displaying an even row 
of white teeth, afterward making a dignified little 
bow, and turning away with her brother. 

They had scarcely gone when we were startled 
by a terrible cry. 

Turning quickly, we saw that Ivan had risen 
from his chair, his face flushed and distorted. 
One hand grasped his wineglass, while the other 


AN IKON OATH. 265 

clutched convulsively at his throat, for he was 
choking. 

Staggering a few uneven steps toward us, he 
stumbled. The glass fell from his nerveless fin- 
gers, and was shattered. 

We sat speechless in surprise, and alarm. 

His face went deathly pale in a moment, and 
he passed his hand across his agonized brow. 

“Ah! Heavens!” he gasped with great effort. 
“You fellows — my wine! can’t you see? I — I’m 
poisoned !” 

We sprang to our feet with one accord and 
rushed toward him^ but before we could stretch 
forth our hands he had staggered forward with a 
loud cry and fallen heavily upon the gravel. 

Our endeavors to raise him were useless. 

“Let me alone!” he shouted hoarsely. “The 
poison — ^was put into my glass — through the trel- 
lis! You cannot save me. Ah! I — I’m dying! 
The cowards have killed me !” 

I knelt and raised his head upon my arm. 

“Don’t touch me!” he cried. “Can’t you let 
me die?” 

Writhing in paroxysms of intense pain, his 
face livid, his body horribly distorted, he ground 
his teeth, and foamed at the mouth. 


266 


AN IKON OA'JII. 


The sight was awful ; yet we were utterly pow- 
erless. 

A violent trembling suddenly shook his whole 
frame, and his palsied limbs stretched themselves 
out rigidly in the final struggle for existence. 

Then he gasped, the breath left his body, and 
he lay pale and motionless under the starlight. 

Ivan Liustig was dead ! 

So quickly had all this happened that scarcely 
anyone had been attracted, and, fortunately, no 
crowd had assembled. As we lifted the body 
and carried it tenderly into the restaurant, the 
strains of the Boje Zara chraniy' which floated 
over the lake, formed a jarring, incongruous dirge 
to our silent and sorrowful cortege, 

A doctor was soon procured, and as soon as he 
touched him he removed his hat respectfully, 
and pronounced him beyond human aid. I 
handed him the pieces of broken glass which I 
had picked up from the graveled walk. He 
smelt them, and finding a drop of wine remain- 
ing, dipped the tip of his little finger into it, and 
placed it upon his tongue. 

“Arsenic,” he remarked. “Without a doubt. 

Reverently they covered the body with a 


AN IKON OATH. 267 

tablecloth, and it was subsequently conveyed 
away. 

It is unnecessary to refer in detail to the 
events that immediately followed. That Ivan 
had been murdered in the most cowardly and 
secret manner possible, was plain, but the iden- 
tity of the person who had placed the poison in 
the glass, from the opposite side of the trellis, 
was a mystery. The police quickly apprehended 
the dvornik: s son and daughter, both of whom 
were submitted to a searching cross-examination. 
There was such an utter absence of motive, how- 
ever, and so plain and straightforward were their 
answers, that the officials were quickly convinced 
of their innocence. 

But I had my own suspicions. Later that 
night I took a drosky to the Vosseressenski quar- 
ter, and sought the dead man’s idol, intending to 
break the news to her, and closely observe the 
manner in which she received it. 

Wanda Waluiski, when I entered, was sitting 
alone, dressed in semi-loose drapery of white, 
that made her childlike figure seem only the 
more youthful under the light of the bright 
lamp. Her eyes met mine instantly as I came 


268 


AJV IKON OA TH, 


in, and their gaze had a fullness of significance I 
could not fathom. I offered her my hand. 

“I never shake the hand of anyone,” she ob- 
served gently, not moving her own. “It induces 
loss of power in psychic sensitiveness.” 

1 was looking into her weirdly delicate visage, 
with the large eyes, whose expression was so 
haunting, and a certain thrill of quickened zest 
suddenly replaced the sensation of repugnance in 
my mind. 

“I have come to break bad news to you,” I 
said gently. 

“I know,” she replied. — I am aware that 
Ivan is dead.” 

“Who told you?” I asked quickly, but my 
inquiry was not answered. 

At that moment the door was flung open un- 
ceremoniously, and two police officers entered. 

“Wanda Waluiski,” exclaimed the elder of the 
two, advancing toward her, “I arrest you, in the 
name of our Father, the Tzar, for the murder of 
one Ivan Liustig!” 

“For murder!” she gasped, half rising from her 
chair. ‘T — I am innocent 1” 

“Upon whose information do you make the 
arrest?” I asked. 


AN IKON OATH. 


269 


The officer referred to the paper in his hand, 
and replied: “One Mascha Mikhalovna alleges 
that this woman placed the poison in the vic- 
tim’s glass.” 

“My sister!” I exclaimed involuntarily. 

“Ah!” said Wanda, who had risen, and stood 
stern and haggard before me. “I told you on 
the first occasion you visited me, that unhappi- 
ness must come to me through you.” Turning 
quickly toward the golden ikon., or holy image, 
that hung upon the wall, she crossed herself rev- 
erently, murmuring, “Before Heaven, I swear I 
am innocent !” 

Then she took up the fur-lined cloak lying 
upon the couch, and throwing it about her shoul- 
ders, drew the hood over her head and an- 
nounced her readiness to accompany the officers. 

As they were about to descend the stairs, two 
police spies in civilian dress entered and received 
orders to search the place. I remained behind in 
order to ascertain what was discovered, but after 
an hour’s investigation they had to acknowledge 
the absence of any clew. 

During the time they were rummaging in holes 
and corners, I chanced to take up a photograph 
album, and was looking casually through it when 


270 


IKON OATH. 


my eyes fell upon a cabinet portrait of a well 
preserved, handsomely attired woman, apparently 
about thirty-five years of age. 

In a moment I recognized it as the counterfeit 
presentment of the woman I had seen strolling 
in the Catherinenhoff Gardens almost immedi- 
ately before I h^d noticed Wanda! 

I closed the album and kept the discovery to 
myself. Within an hour I saw Mascha, and 
asked her upon what grounds she had given the 
information that had led to the mysterious Wan- 
da’s arrest. 

“She loved Ivan, and was my rival,’’ she re- 
plied, shrugging her shoulders. “I saw her 
emerge from behind the trellis. That is all the 
proof I have.’’ 

I pointed out that the allegations were of so 
serious a character that, in all probability, Wan- 
da would be kept in prison while the matter was 
being investigated, which would certainly be sev- 
eral months, perhaps years. 

“But she stole him from me,’’ my sister re- 
plied, with flashing eyes. “She will now have to 
prove her innocence.’’ 

I could see that Mascha was revengeful, and 
that all argument was useless. 


AJV IKON OATH. 


271 


The murder created a good deal of sensation 
in St. Petersburg; and, as I had anticipated, 
Wanda was confined in the grim Fortress of 
Peter and Paul. Days, weeks, months passed, 
but she was not brought before the court — the 
police were still investigating. At length, after 
nearly seven months had gone by, the case was 
brought to trial, and the accused was acquitted. 

Strange how fate seems to direct our course in 
life. It was about a year afterward. I had re- 
turned to London, and, drifting into journalistic 
work, was representing a daily newspaper, that 
shall be nameless, in the gallery of the House of 
Commons.. I had a reason for entering journal- 
ism, but that has nothing to do with my present 
story. 

The hour was midnight. Mr. Speaker had 
ordered a division upon an important question 
affecting Ireland, and honorable members, 
stretching themselves, had risen wearily and were 
strolling out to vote. Many of my confreres had 
flung down their pens and made for the press 
bar, but I was busy. The debate had been al- 
most historical, for in answer to the objections of 
the opposition, Mr. Balfour had made a brilliant 


272 


IKON OATH. 


and telling reply, therefore I was unfortunately 
compelled to continue writing, and that at ex- 
press speed. 

The frou-frou of silk, mingled with frivolous 
feminine laughter, caused me to look upward. 
The ladies’ gallery is over that devoted to the 
press, and somewhat in the rear, and is irrever- 
ently known as the “gridiron,” because the fem- 
inine beauty is hidden from the curious gaze of 
honorable members by ornamental ironwork. 
From our seats, however, we obtain a good view 
of the fair ones who come to hear their husbands, 
fathers, and lovers descant upon their country’s 
ills, and as I glanced up, I saw two faces behind 
the iron bars peering down upon the half empty 
benches. 

One was that of an elderly, white-haired lady, 
evidently a patrician. The other was younger, 
and her features struck me as strangely familiar. 

Where could I have seen her before? I tried 
to think, but, with tantalizing contrariness, my 
memory refused to answer. Yet I felt a curious 
desire to remember who she was. It was almost 
like a presage of evil. 

I looked again. Her eyes met mine in a cold, 
haughty stare, but in a second I had recollected 


AN IKON OATH. 273 

her. She was the woman I had noticed in the 
Catherinenhoff Gardens! 

My pen almost fell from my grasp. 

Although I felt positive I had not mistaken 
the face, yet, I admit, the identification was so 
sudden that I found myself doubting whether it 
was really she whom I had seen in the dimly 
illuminated grounds. 

“Campbell,"’ I said, beckoning one of the at- 
tendants, “there’s a lady upstairs with blue birds 
in her hat. Don’t notice her for a moment, but 
look up presently, and tell me if you know who 
she is.’’ 

“Very well, sir,’’ he replied, with a significant 
smile, arranging his gilt chain of ofifice over his 
glossy shirt front, and strolling away along the 
gallery. 

Returning in a few moments, he bent over me, 
and exclaimed, ‘'That lady, sir!’’ 

“Yes,” I said anxiously. 

“She’s Mrs. Elworthy, wife of the member for 
Northwest Huntingdon. She’s well known in 
society, and comes as regularly when her hus- 
band speaks as Mrs. Gladstone does.” 

“ Mrs. Elworthy ! ” I ejaculated. “ Ah ! 
thanks,” I added. 


274 


AAT IKON OATH. 


Remarking that I was welcome to the informa- 
tion, Campbell walked away. 

Mrs. Elworthy ! My thoughts were only of her. 
I knew her by reputation as a leader of fashion, 
and the center of a dashing set. She joked 
pleasantly with her elder companion, uttering a 
low, musical laugh. The diamonds on her slim 
wrist sparkled as the dainty gloved hand 
grasped the ironwork. 

I was watching that hand surreptitiously when 
a strange thought occurred to me. I wondered 
whether it was the same that had reached 
through the creeper-covered trellis in St. Peters- 
burg two years before ! 

But as these grave thoughts took possession of 
me,, the “House” filled, the tellers advanced to 
the table, and the result of the division was de- 
clared. 

I went out to hand it to my telegraphist in the 
lobby. When I returned, the object of my 
thoughts had gone. 

It was certainly a curious coincidence that we 
should thus meet, yet what proof had I that she 
was a murderess? Nothing beyond a strange, 
fitful fancy. 


AJV IKON OATH. 


275 


In a handsome drawing room in Brook Street, 
Grosvenor Square, where the wintry twilight fil- 
tered through rose-colored silk curtains, I was 
sitting alone with Mrs. Elworthy. 

Through a friend of the family I had suc- 
ceeded in obtaining an introduction to her, and 
now regularly received cards for all her little fes- 
tivities. Both she and her husband welcomed me 
warmly whenever I called, and very soon I found 
myself one of a very pleasant, if extravagant, set. 
I made, however, two discoveries of a somewhat 
remarkable character. Firstly, that Mrs. El- 
worthy was a Russian, and, secondly, that the 
fascinating girl I had known as Wanda Waluiski 
was living with her, and was, in reality, her 
daughter ! 

On this particular afternoon I had remained 
behind after the other visitors had departed, and 
was chatting with Mrs. Elworthy, who, with all a 
woman’s cunning, had chosen a vieiix rose tea- 
gown, which, falling in artistic folds, gave 
sculptural relief to her almost angular outline. 

For a woman, she was unusually conversant 
with political questions, and I had purposely 
turned our discussion upon the prevalence of 
famine in Russia. 


276 


AN IKON OA TH. 


‘*Were you ever in St. Petersburg?” I asked, 
glancing at her suddenly. 

She gazed at me inquiringly, and the smile 
died from her face. 

“No,” she replied quickly. “I came from 
Odessa. I have never been to the capital. But 
of course you have.” 

“Yes,” I said reflectively. “Unfortunately, 
however, my last visit was marred by a very sad 
occurrence.” 

“What was it?” she asked, lounging languidly 
in her chair. 

“The murder of my friend Ivan Liustig,” I re- 
plied calmly, gazing straight into her eyes. 

The announcement did not produce the effect 
I had intended. She stirred uneasily, but merely 
raised her eyebrows and uttered a low exclama- 
tion of horror. 

“The poor fellow was poisoned,” I continued, 
at the same time drawing my wallet from my 
pocket. “Here is his photograph,” I added, 
handing her a carte de visit e. 

She looked calmly at the pictured face. 

“Very sad — very sad, indeed,” she remarked. 
“And was the murderer caught?” 


AJV IKON OATH. 


277 


She kept her eyes upon the photograph as she 
asked the question. 

“Excuse me — murderess,” I said, in as uncon- 
cerned a tone as I could. 

“A woman, then?” 

” Yes, and moreover, I have traced the assassin.” 

She looked up sharply into my face. Her 
handsome features presented a strange, haggard ap- 
pearance, and she toyed nervously with her rings. 

“Why — what — what do you mean?” she 
gasped. 

“Disguise is useless, Mrs. Elworthy,” I said 
sternly, as I rose to my feet. “I mean that I 
can prove you poisoned Ivan Liustig !” 

She started from her chair and glared at me. 

“You — you say this! You insult me, sir — in 
my own house — brand me a murderess! Fll call 
the servants and have you shown out instantly,” 
she cried angrily, at the same time making a 
motion as if to ring the bell. 

I stayed her hand. 

“No, madame,” I said, “you will do nothing of 
the kind. Your daughter has probably not told 
you that I was present when she was arrested on 
suspicion. Since then your guilt has been 


278 


AJV IKON OATH. 


proved, and it is useless to deny it. The bottle, 
still containing a portion of the liquid arsenic 
sold to you by Wagner, the chemist in the Nev- 
skoi, is here,” I continued, taking it from my 
pocket and holding it before her eyes. “Besides, 
a Russian lad is now in London who actually 
saw you pour it into Ivan’s glass!” 

“He lies — I — I — never was in St. Petersburg in 
my life! I never knew Ivan ” 

The proud, handsome woman, now pale as 
death, stopped suddenly. Her lips refused to 
articulate; she reeled, clutched at the table for 
support, but tottering back, fell senseless to the 
floor. 

Ringing for the servants, I told them that their 
mistress had fainted. Then hurrying on my 
coat, I crammed my hat upon my head, and left 
the house. 

Smoking before the fire in my bachelor cham- 
bers a fortnight afterward, with my slippered feet 
upon the fender, I had given myself up to reflec- 
tion. My reverie was somewhat puzzling, for, 
truth to tell, I was in love, and the object of my 
affection was none other than Wanda Elworthy. 
Her face smiled down upon me from a cabinet 


AN IKON OA TH. 


279 


photograph that stood upon the mantelshelf; 
yet, as the smoke curled before it, I could not 
help thinking how much it resembled that of her 
unhappy mother. 

Suddenly my meditations were interrupted by 
a loud rat-tat at the door. Opening it, I was 
surprised to discover a lady, who passed me with- 
out a word, and entered my sitting room. 

Closing the door I followed her, and found it 
was Mrs. Elworthy. 

“You seldom have lady visitors, I presume?” 
she exclaimed, with a curious smile, as she seated 
herself, rested her elbows upon the table, and 
lifted her veil. 

“No,” I replied, halting before the fire, with 
my hands behind my back. “But I confess Tm 
puzzled, Mrs. Elworthy, as to the object of this 
interview.” 

Frowning slightly, she tapped the floor impa- 
tiently with her shapely foot. 

“My object is to come to terms with you.” 

“Then you admit your guilt?” I remarked in 
astonishment. 

' “It is useless, I suppose, to deny it. You 
have discovered my secret, and I am prepared to 
pay the price you name.” 


28 o 


AN IKON OA TH. 


Her features were pale and set — a face almost 
statuesque. 

“Pardon me, madame,” I replied warmly; 
“were I to accept gold from you I should be an 
accessory to your cowardly crime.” 

“You misunderstand me. I have no intention 
of offering you money.” 

“Then what request have you to make, pray?” 
I asked, looking fixedly at her. 

“You know the original of that photograph 
behind you?” she exclaimed in a harsh, strained 
voice, pointing at it. 

“I do.” 

“It has come to my knowledge that you love 
her.” 

“That is so.” 

“Then the object of my visit is to make a 
compact with you. It is this: If you will marry 
Wanda within three months from to-day she 
shall have a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.” 

We were both silent for a moment. 

“Which proposal means that you are prepared 
to sacrifice your daughter for the preservation of 
your own secret, eh?” 

She did not reply, but bowed her head in 
humiliation. 


AN IKON OATH. 


281 


'‘Madame/’ I said severely, “I admit I love 
Wanda, but such a proposition is absolutely 
loathsome.” 

“Think — think — she cares for you! Besides, 
if you had money you would no longer be com- 
pelled to work for an existence.” 

“Impossible,” I replied decisively. 

“Ah, don’t say that!” she cried hoarsely, as, 
with a sudden impulse, she threw herself upon 
her knees before me. “See ! I implore you for 
mercy. God knows I have tried to atone and do 
my duty, but I yielded to temptation, and this is 
my punishment !” 

Drawing a long breath, she burst into a flood 
of tears. 

“You — you do not know all, or you would find 
the circumstances extenuating,” she sobbed bit- 
terly. “I — I confess it was I who poisoned 
Ivan ! He was — he was my son !” 

“Your son?” 

“Yes. I — I’m a vile wretch, as degraded as 
the woman who walks the pavement. I killed 
my son. For twenty years he was ignorant of 
his parentage, but, alas! he discovered the secret 
of his dishonorable birth. As the living evidence 
of my shame he declared he would denounce me 


282 


AN IKON OATH. 


— I, who had supplied him with money and 
secretly guided his career. When he knew I was 
his mother he loathed me, and cursed me for my 
sin! His hatred stung me; he threatened to 
expose me to my husband. Moreover, he fell in 
love with my lawful daughter, Wanda, then 
studying in St. Petersburg! What was I to do?” 

She paused. Her hands were clasped ; her 
agonized face was uplifted in supplication. 

“Do not shrink from me!” she cried. “Have 
mercy, for here, before Heaven, I swear I am 
penitent ! Exposure meant ruin. Death only 
could rid me of the terrible Nemesis. I went to 
St. Petersburg — follo^ved him — and — and — you 
know the rest. I — his mother — murdered him !” 

Her chin rested upon her breast ; her white 
lips moved, but no sound came from them. 

“Madame,” I said at length, taking her hand 
and assisting her to rise, “this interview is pain- 
ful to us both; let us end it.” 

“Will you not spare me? will you not be mer- 
ciful and accept my offer?” she implored. 

“I cannot. I pity you, and hope forgiveness 
may be yours.” 

“You will not accept the dowry?” 

I shook my head. 


AJV IKON OATH. 283 

She turned slowly and, blinded by tears, tot- 
tered out, closing the door gently after her. 


The newspapers of the following evening con- 
tained a sensational item of news, headed “Sui- 
cide of an M. P.’s wife.” It ran as follows: 

“Mrs. Elworthy, wife of Mr. Harold Elworthy, 
M. P., of Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, was 
discovered dead in her dressing room this morn- 
ing. A small bottle containing arsenic was 
found at her side, together with a letter which 
leaves no doubt that she committed suicide. 
The contents of the letter have not been ascer- 
tained, but it is rumored that it is a confession of 
a very remarkable character.” 

An inquest was duly held, and a verdict of 
“suicide while temporarily insane” returned. 
Immediately following this came the announce- 
ment that the member for Northwest Hunting- 
don had taken the Chiltern Hundreds and gone 
abroad, accompanied by his daughter Wanda. 

No one has either seen or heard of them since. 


XIL 

THE TZAR’S SPY. 


I. 

A CHAOS of terrible recollections bewilders me. 
I have the sense of having trodden Via Dolo- 
rosa during long years, but now I have taken my 
last step for the present in the blood-spotted 
pathway to Revolution. 

The windows at the rear of the Chateau de 
Montfermeil, a quaint, old-world place, near the 
high road from St. Germain to Paris, look out 
upon a wide, well kept lawn, flanked by dark yew 
hedges, and backed by the winding Seine, on the 
opposite bank of which a sparsely timbered slope 
leads up to a small farm. Zigzag up this slope 
runs a path — probably it has so run for centuries, 
for at the foot of it is a ford across a small 
stream — which in spring is almost invisible, but 
in autumn is brown and rutty. 

Two men strolled down this path one Septem- 
ber evening not long ago. One, a young fellow 

284 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


285 


under thirty, fair-haired and pink-cheeked, was 
something of a fop, while the other was a tall 
man, about fifty-five, of military bearing, with a 
pair of keen eyes, sharply cut features, and hair 
and mustache turning gray. Attired in a rather 
shabby velvet coat and gaiters, he looked like a 
gamekeeper, but was, in fact. General Martianoff, 
late Governor of Mstislavl, and now chief of the 
Russian secret police in Paris. 

“I really can’t make you out, Andr^,” he said, 
as they sighted the chateau ; and, shifting his 
gun to the other shoulder, he took occasion to 
glance searchingly at his companion. “How con- 
foundedly glum you are.’’ 

The younger man laughed, but not very mer- 
rily ; and there was a touch of sullenness in his 
tone as he answered : 

“How absurd! A man cannot be always 
grinning.” 

“No; but pdt/ de foie gras is not man's ordi- 
nary meat,” retorted the general imperturbably. 
“My dear Chaudet.” 

“Well?” said the other snappishly. 

‘*You are in a mess; that is my opinion! 
Now, take my advice, and make a clean breast of 
the matter. ^ You have some tie or other which 


286 


✓ 

THE TZAR'S SPY. 

weighs on your mind and of which we are igno- 
rant.” 

The young man turned his face to his compan- 
ion, and General Martianoff, albeit a very cool 
personage, was taken aback by the change which 
anger or some other emotion had worked in it. 

.Even Andr^ Chaudet’s voice was altered. 

“And what if I have?” he asked hoarsely, 
stopping short so suddenly that the pair con- 
fronted one another. “What if I have, m’sieur?” 

The chief spy twirled his mustache thought- 
fully. 

“Well,” he said, outwardly unmoved, “you 
must break it — get rid of it. That is all, Chau- 
det.” 

“And if I am unable?” 

“Unwilling, you mean.” 

“No — cannot, cannot!” replied the younger 
man with vehemence. 

“But you must. You hear? you must! Oth- 
erwise it will be your ruin.” 

“Bah! Don’t talk like that. Are you not 
coming to the chateau?” 

No!” replied the general violently. And 
without more, without a word of farewell, he 
turned his back and strode away through the 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


287 


long grass to a point half a mile higher up the 
river, where a wooden bridge gave access to the 
station of La Pecq, whence he returned to 
Paris. 

I had been following the pair, and had over- 
heard their conversation. 

The news that M. Loz^, the Prefect of Paris 
Police, had called upon the general and was kept 
for some time by the Tzar’s spy, had caused con- 
siderable excitement in the Nihilist settlement at 
La Glaci^re. It was anticipated that the general 
and the prefect were putting their heads together 
for the purpose of getting the worst noted of the 
refugees entrapped by the Russian police. In 
order, therefore, to watch Martianoff’s move- 
ments closely, I had been sent to Paris, with 
instructions to ascertain, if possible, who were 
the suspected persons and what system of espi- 
onage was being adopted. 

Was it surprising that upon this brutal agent 
of his Imperial Majesty, who had wrecked the 
career of my sister and myself, I kept a watchful 
eye? He was a ferret in human shape, and, with 
the dozen Russian detectives under him, he had 
a keen scent for Revolutionists and criminating 
circumstances. Since his resignation from the 


288 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


governorship of Mstislavl he had been graduated 
at the Bureau of Secret Police in St. Petersburg. 

He lived in the Boulevard Haussmann, at the 
corner of the Avenue de Messine, where he occu- 
pied an entresol which looked out into the court- 
yard, leading the life of a man with an adequate 
income. He only had two saddle horses, with a 
groom of all work brought by him from Russia, 
and he contented himself with a hired brougham. 
He breakfasted in his rooms, dined at the fash- 
ionable restaurants, showed himself in the Bois 
de Boulogne of an afternoon, at theatrical first- 
performances of an evening, knew all Paris- — the 
''tout Paris' of the Boulevard — and was received 
in almost all circles of society. Yet he had few 
intimate friends, he seldom received his habitual 
acquaintances at his rooms, and often absented 
himself for several days without saying where he 
was going. 

His concierge revered him, and never ex- 
pressed astonishment when he saw rather seedy 
looking people climb the stairs leading to the 
apartments of this rich and respectable tenant. 
General Martianoff made a show of philanthropy, 
and, according ta the hall porter, his reputation 


THE TZAR'S SPY. " ' 2^9 

as a charitable gentleman exposed him to the 
visits of seedy looking individuals. 

I did not return to Paris by the same train as 
the spy, but remained behind in order to make 
inquiries regarding the companion he had so un- 
ceremoniously quitted. With that object I re- 
mained at a small estaminet on the road which 
runs through the Bois de Vesinet to Montesson, 
chatting to an old woodcutter, and eliciting some 
facts regarding the Chaudets. The chateau be- 
longed to Count Felix Chaudet, a wealthy old 
gentleman, who, according to the woodcutter’s 
statement, had held important government 
offices under the Empire, but who was now on 
the verge of senile imbecility, and lived in seclu- 
sion with his son Andre. The latter had trav- 
eled a great deal, and had quite recently settled 
down at the chateau, at the old count’s request. 

The sun had set, and it was growing dusk as I 
left the estaminet. I had just emerged from the 
wood and turned into the high road when I per- 
ceived, about a hundred paces from me, a 
shadow rapidly approaching. I slipped behind a 
tree and watched its progress. It was a tall, 
slender girl, exquisitely graceful, with rounded 


290 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


throat and arms, having dark, wavy hair drawn 
back from her brow, a flawless complexion, and 
handsome brown eyes. As she passed I recog- 
nized her as Natalya Lebedeff, daughter of a 
prominent member of our organization, who, 
about four years before, had fled from Russia 
and taken refuge in Paris, where he now kept a 
tobacconist’s shop in the Rue d’Amsterdam, close 
to the St. Lazare terminus. 

The road that she followed was bordered with 
oak trees and quickset hedges. I walked after 
her cautiously, for I was curious to know what 
had brought her to St. Germain. 

After making several turns, the road sloped 
gently toward a stone bridge thrown across the 
small stream. Close by was a hamlet built upon 
the side of a hill, and surrounded by walnut 
trees, while the green waters bubbling over the 
pebbles which formed its bed rushed onward 
toward the Seine. 

Upon the bridge stood Andr^, and she moved 
directly toward him. 

When they met she did not take the hand he 
offered. Withdrawing it quickly, he said, “You 
are right, Natalya. I am a villain!” The words 
seemed to come from his inmost heart. Then he 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


291 


continued, “Spurn me from you, as I deserve. I 
scarcely expected that you would come from 
Paris to keep the appointment. Here are the 
papers ; do what you please with them.” 

As he finished speaking she shook her head, 
and a bitter smile crossed her lips. 

“I have forgiven all,” she said, eagerly seizing 
the papers and folding them small. Then she 
placed them in the pocket of her dress. 

She shivered slightly, and they walked along. 
The path they entered followed the course of the 
stream and led down to the river. They were 
silent and. absorbed in thought. One seemed 
filled with grief, remorse, and expectation ; the 
other felt her destiny weighing heavily upon her, 
and thought she heard within the woods the 
agitated beating of a heart, which was kept in 
motion only by its fears. 

From my hiding place I watched them disap- 
pear in the fast falling gloom ; then I turned and 
hurried to Le Pecq, where I arrived just in time 
to catch a train for Paris. 

An hour later, while walking down the Rue de 
Monceau on my way to my unpretentious hotel 
in the Rue de Lisbonne, I passed General Marti- 
anoff. He was in evening dress, and walking 


292 ^THE TZAR'S SPY. 

away from the house in which he lived, evidently 
on his way to dine. 

Then a thought suddenly occurred to me, and 
after a moment’s hesitation, I turned down the 
Avenue de Messine to the corner house on the 
boulevard. 

Ascending the stairs, unnoticed by the sleepy 
concierge, I knocked at the door of the general’s 
apartments. Replying to my inquiry in Russian, 
the man servant, a thin, cadaverous looking fel- 
low, informed me that his Excellency was out, 
and his return was uncertain. 

“But I have to see him upon official business,” 
I said, at the same tirrTe slipping a ten-franc piece 
into his ready palm. “Show me to his room, 
and I will wait.” 

Conducting me along the hall, he showed me 
into a large, well furnished room, the two win- 
dows of which looked out upon the boulevard. 
The heavy curtains were drawn, a large brass 
lamp burned brightly under a shade of amber 
silk, and the spacious saddle bag armchairs gave 
the apartment an air of coziness. It was half 
library, half sitting room, and the littered writ- 
ing table that stood in a recess near the fireplace 
showed that the ex-governor had considerable 
correspondence. 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 293 

It was to ascertain the nature of his communi- 
cations that I had ventured into the spy’s sanc- 
tum. When the servant had withdrawn and 
closed the door I immediately commenced my 
investigations. Rapidly glancing at the open 
letters and memoranda, I saw they related to 
various persons suspected of Nihilism, resident in 
Paris. 

Presently I took up a large folded blue paper 
and opened it. The document revealed how 
closely Russian subjects were being watched. It 
was the report of a secret police agent who had 
been told off to keep observation upon Israel 
Lebedeff, the father of Natalya. In order that 
my readers may fully understand the manner in 
which the “Security Section” carries out its sys- 
tem of espionage, I give a copy of the printed 
questions, as follows : 

IMPERIAL POLICE DEPARTMENT. 

THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS TO BE FILLED IN 
WEEKLY. 

1. What is the Christian name, paternal name, 
and family name of the person under observation? 

2. Where is his (or her) residence? In what 
district, street, and house? What is the number 
of the room? 


294 THE TZAR'S SPY. 

3. Where did you first see him, and under 
what circumstances? Has he seen you? 

4. How long has he resided at his present 
address? Whence did he come? 

5. Does he live alone, or with someone? In 
the latter case, with whom ? 

6. Has he any servants? If so, what are their 
names? If not, who looks after his room, or 
rooms? What things has he in his rooms? To 
whom is his dirty linen sent? State name and 
residence of his laundress? 

7. Does he have his meals at home, or else- 
where? In the latter case, where? 

8. Does he visit any library, and, if so, which 
one? State what books he has borrowed in the 
course of the week. 

9. At what o’clock does he leave his rooms, 
and when does he return? 

10. How does he spend his time at home? 

11. Has he a wife, or children? If the latter, 
how many? 

12. Is he paying attention to any woman? If 
so, who is she and where does she live? Where 
do they meet? 

13. Who has visited him in the course of the 
week? At what times? A. M. or P. M.? 

14. Has anyone (male or female) spent the 
night in his rooms? If so, what person or per- 
sons? Their residence? 

15. Has he ever been in a state of intoxication? 


THE TZAHS SPY. 295 

16. Does he receive letters or papers from 
Russia? 

17. What hour is best for his arrest? 

All these questions were answered with a mi- 
nuteness of detail that was astonishing, the docu- 
ment being signed by the officer of surveillance, 
and countersigned by General Martianoff. 

Absorbed in the perusal of the report, I did 
not notice the presence of the servant, who had 
entered stealthily, and suddenly stood before me, 
causing me to start and replace the paper hur- 
riedly. 

“Vladimir Mikhalovitch,” he said, “you had 
better leave before the general returns.” 

“You know me, then?” I asked in bewilder- 
ment. 

For answer he smiled, and gave me the sign of 
our order. 

“How came you in the spy’s service?” I asked. 
“What is your name?” 

“I’m Paul Zadlewski. The general engaged me 
as his servant when he visited Petersburg last 
year.” 

“You know the contents of the papers brought 
here by the spies?” 


296 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


“I make copies of them all and forward them 
to the Petersburg Circle.’' 

“Has Lebedeff been warned?” 

“Yes. He has sold his business, and is ar- 
ranging to leave Paris for London.” 

“And what of Natalya, his daughter?” 

“Hark! the general has returned. Quick!” 

He almost dragged me through a door which 
led into an adjoining room, whence I passed out 
upon the staircase. 

I hurried downstairs, and a few moments after- 
ward was walking along the Rue de la PepinRre 
toward my hotel. 

II. 

A loud knocking at the door of my bedroom 
and a voice demanding admittance aroused me. 

When I unlocked the door, Karl Schoraffe, a 
refugee, rushed in. 

“They have arrested Lebedeff,” he exclaimed 
breathlessly. “Last night four sergents de ville 
went to the house, searched, and discovered some 
bombs in course of manufacture and some of our 
literature. He was arrested and taken to the 
Prefecture.” 


THE TZAHS SPY. 297 

**But he was warned in time to escape,” I said. 

“Yes, but he is now in their grip.” 

”Where is Natalya?” 

“She went out yesterday afternoon, and has 
not yet returned.” 

“Very well,” I said; “but we must secure his 
release at all hazards.” 

Karl, seated himself and chatted to me while I 
dressed. It puzzled me that the Paris police 
should have found explosives on the tobacconist’s 
premises, especially after the ample warning that 
Zadlewski had given. 

Several days passed. Lebedeff was detained 
for inquiries, and nothing had been heard of 
Natalya. Although our organization exerted 
every effort to trace the girl, no clew to her 
whereabouts could be discovered. She had mys- 
teriously disappeared, and we were seriously 
handicapped in our search by the fact that it was 
not considered wise policy to inquire of Andr^ 
Chaudet, as there was evidently some secret 
understanding between him and General Marti- 
anoff. 

One morning, a fortnight after Lebedeff’s 
arrest, I was present at the Correctional Court of 
the Seine, when he was charged with being in 


298 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


the possession of explosives, contrary to the 
Code. Evidence was given by several detec- 
tives, while Martianoff stood at the rear of the 
court watching the proceedings and disguised as 
an honest looking workman. 

When the evidence regarding the bombs was 
complete, the public prosecutor made an applica- 
tion. He stated that the prisoner had been 
identified by police agents from St. Petersburg 
as one who was “wanted” in that city in connec- 
tion with the laying of a mine of dynamite, 
under the Norwinski Strasse, in order to make an 
attempt upon the life of the Tzar. Further evi- 
dence was then given by an attache of the Rus- 
sian Embassy and two agents of the secret 
police, and eventually the prisoner was formally 
committed for extradition to Russia. 

I left the court with a conviction that the 
escape of my compatriot was hopeless, and that 
Siberian hard labor would inevitably be his sen- 
tence. 

While walking along the Boulevard des Ital- 
iens, immersed in my own thoughts, Karl Scho- 
raffe acco.sted me, and dragged me into a quiet 
cafZ, 

“Look,” he exclaimed in a low tone, producing 


THE TZAHS SPY. 


299 


from his pocket a soiled and crumpled copy of 
that day’s Gaulois ; “read that!’’ and he pointed 
to a paragraph. 

The few lines were as follows : 

“Last night a bargeman, named Debriege, 
while steering his craft on the Seine near Croissy, 
noticed a dark object floating in the water. He 
grappled it with his boat hook, and when he 
drew it on board was horrified to find that it was 
the body of a well dressed young girl. Nothing 
was found upon her whereby her identity could 
be established, and the body was conveyed to 
the morgue.” 

“Well?” I said interrogatively, after I had 
read it. 

“Do you think it can be Natalya Lebedeff?” 

“Ah!” I ejaculated, suddenly recollecting her 
mysterious disappearance. “We will go to the 
morgue and ascertain.” 

We at once left the boulevard and proceeded 
to the house of the dead behind Notre Dame. 

It needed not a second glance at the rigid 
body lying upon its cold slate slab to tell that 
Schoraffe’s surmise was correct. The body was 
that of the pretty Natalya. Instantly my 


300 the TZAR'S SPY. 

thoughts reverted to Andr^ Chaudet. Could he 
be her murderer? 

Half an hour afterward I called at General 
Martianoff’s, when Zadlewski handed me secretly 
a sheet of paper folded small, which I quickly 
transferred to my pocket. It was a detailed 
account of the movements of the Chief of Secret 
Police during the last twenty-four hours. 

At midnight the prominent members of the 
Nihilist Circle of Paris met at a house in La 
Glaciere. I produced reports and papers which 
conclusively showed that General Martianoff was 
the head of the Russian spies in the French cap- 
ital, and Zadlewski, who also attended, made a 
statement. The manner in which Lebedeff had 
been watched, arrested, and sent back to St. 
Petersburg had aroused the ire and hatred of 
every man present, and it was unanimously 
agreed that the ex-governor of Mstislavl, being a 
sworn enemy of Russian freedom, should be sen- 
tenced to death. 

The president of the tribunal then took a num- 
ber of pieces of paper, and upon one sketched 
roughly the death emblem of our order. The 
papers were then folded carefully, placed in a box, 
and every man drew one. The drawing was car- 


THE TZAHS SPY. 


301 


ried on in silence. The one to whose lot it fell 
to strike the fatal blow made no sign, and none in 
that assembly were aware who had been selected 
to carry out the sentence. Silence is always pre- 
• served in such cases in order to insure absolute 
secrecy, and tb give the murderer a better chance 
of evading the police. 

That night, as Zadlewski and I were returning 
to Paris together, I noticed he appeared thought- 
ful and morose, and asked the reason. 

‘T must leave the general's service to-morrow," 
he replied. “There is an urgent reason that I 
should do so." 

“Could I not apply for the situation?" I sug- 
gested, as a scheme suddenly entered my mind. 

“Yes, why not?" he said, brightening. “You 
could then continue’watching." 

“Very well," I replied. “Give notice to-night, 
and I will apply at midday to-morrow. I already 
have a recommendation as a valet and trust- 
worthy servant," I added, laughing. 

“Who from?" 

“A German count with whom I traveled a few 
years ago." 

Then, joining in my hilarity, he once more 
assumed his usual gayety. 


302 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


A week afterward I was duly installed as valet 
to the general, while Zadlewski had been en- 
gaged as messenger at the Franco-Russian Club 
in the Rue Royale. My work was not particu- 
larly heavy, for the chief mouchard was out for the 
greater part of each day, which gave me oppor- 
tunities for investigating and making copies of 
the reports of espionage that arrived daily from 
male and female secret agents. 

One morning, about three weeks after the 
meeting of the Circle at La Glaciere, I chanced 
to take up a paper and my eyes fell upon a tele- 
gram from St. Petersburg, stating that Israel 
Lebedeff had been tried by court-martial, found 
guilty of an attempt upon the life of the Em- 
peror, and had been sentenced to hard labor for 
life in Siberia. 

Just as I had read it the door bell rang, and I 
admitted a short, stout, shabbily attired French- 
man, who, without addressing me, walked 
straight through to the room in which the gen- 
eral was sitting, closing the door after him. 

The fact that he had a newspaper in his hand 
aroused my curiosity, and by placing my ear at 
the keyhole I was enabled to catch part of the 
conversation. 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


303 


“Ah! So they found him guilty, eh?“ I heard 
the general exclaim. “Well, we shall be com- 
mended by his Majesty for our shrewdness.” 

“Shrewdness!” observed the visitor, with a 
laugh. “True, we may call it so, but, entre nous, 
I do not like the aspect affairs might assume if 
all the facts were known.” 

“What do you mean? One Nihilist more or 
less surely cannot matter!” 

“The arrest was made at the cost of the girl 
Natalya’s life.” 

“She committed suicide,” replied the Tzar’s 
agent quickly. “And what is more, her body 
has been buried without identification.” 

“She did not commit suicide,” said the detec- 
tive calmly. “She was murdered!” 

“How do you know?” 

“The spies of the secret police are everywhere. 
One was present when she was flung into the 
river — it was I.” 

“Hush! speak lower,” urged the general. 
“My servant might overhear.” Then he 
added: “Listen, and I will prove to you that our 
action was justifiable. Andr^ Chaudet, who was 
an attache at St. Petersburg, and whose father 
owns the Chateau de Montfermeil, was likely to 


304 THE TZAR'S SPY. 

be of service to Russia, and for that reason I 
courted his companionship. I was not long in 
discovering that he entertained Nihilistic views, 
and that he was an old friend of Lebedeff’s. 
Andre and Natalya, although not lovers, fre- 
quently met clandestinely in the interests of the 
Revolutionary movement. Natalya, by some 
unaccountable means, discovered that I was con- 
nected with the Imperial police, and on inform- 
ing Andr^, prevailed upon him to steal some 
papers relating to our investigations regarding 
her father. He called upon me one day, and I 
was incautious enough to leave him here alone 
for a few moments, during which time he pur- 
loined a most important letter, one that if ever 
produced would be most damning evidence 
against us, and probably cause our expulsion 
from France. It exposed our little plot against 
Lebedeff, and explained the manner in which the 
bombs were to be introduced into his house. Of 
course, you quite understand that the Bureau at 
St. Petersburg was growing impatient, and we 
were bound to arrest someone.” 

“One Nihilist is as good as another, providing 
you can fasten a conspiracy upon him,” remarked 
the visitor. 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 305 

“Just SO,” continued Martianoff. “When I 
found the letter was missing, I had strict watch 
kept upon both Chaudet and the girl, by which 
means I discovered that he handed her the 
papers without reading them himself, for she had 
asked him not to do so. It was clear that when 
she read them she would place her father upon 
his guard, and there was also a possibility of us 
being caught like rats in a trap. Hence it was 
imperative, both for the success of our plans, and 
the prestige of the Imperial police, that we 
should secure her silence. There was but one 
way to do this — death ! I returned to St. Ger- 
main that night ” 

“I know the rest,” interrupted the spy; “I fol- 
lowed you, thinking you might require assistance. 
You met the girl on the river bank, after she had 
left Andr^, and, after taking the papers from her 
pocket, gripped her by the throat and threw her 
into the river.” 

“Bah! she was only a Jewess,” said Martianoff 
unconcernedly. “ Had she escaped she would 
have probably taken the papers to one of the 
Socialist deputies, an interpolation would have 
been made in the Chamber, and the letter pro- 
duced. With what result? Disaster, disgrace, 


3o6 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


and public opinion so strong against us that we 
should be compelled to leave France.’' 

“Instead of which we shall receive commenda- 
tion, and perhaps decoration, from the Tzar,’’ 
observed the Frenchman. “Ah! you were right, 
M’sieur le General. You are always right. His 
Majesty should, indeed, be gratified at possessing 
such a diplomatic agent as yourself. The mur- 
der shall not be mentioned again between us.’’ 

At that moment there were sounds as if some- 
one were walking across the room, therefore I left 
the door abruptly and consequently heard no 
more. 


III. 

After the departure of the stout Frenchman I 
was sent to deliver a letter in the Avenue de 
I’Op^ra, and after an absence of half an hour 1 
returned and continued my work in my own 
room. 

Scarcely had I resumed when the door bell 
again rang. Opening it, I was confronted by 
Paul Zadlewski, who held a letter in his hand. 

“An invitation to a ball at the Franco-Russian 
Club; to be delivered personally,’’ he whispered 
significantly, as he passed me and entered the 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 307 

general’s room unannounced. There was noth- 
ing unusual in this, for he frequently brought 
messages; therefore I returned to my work of 
dusting books. 

A moment later, however, I heard a low excla- 
mation of surprise, followed by a peculiar noise, 
as if some heavy article had fallen upon the floor, 
and I saw Zadlewski, with pale, affrighted face, 
hurrying out. 

I rushed into Martianoff’s room to ascertain 
what had happened, but at first saw nothing 
unusual. On the opposite side of the writing 
table, however, a horrifying sight met my 
gaze. 

Lying upon the Persian rug before the fire- 
place was the general. Blood was upon his 
hands, and a brief examination showed that he 
had been shot in the breast with a revolver. He 
was still breathing, and as I lifted his head upon 
my arm he gasped the one word, in Russian, 
“Revenge !” 

The respiration immediately became fainter, 
and in a few seconds he died. 

The chief spy had been assassinated. His 
papers were in disorder, and the fact that a 
bureau had been broken open showed that the 


3 o 8 the rZAHS SPY. 

murderer had searched for something he partic- 
ularly desired. 

I quickly summoned medical aid, and was 
afterward closely examined by the jiige d' instruc- 
tio7t, but as I kept Zadlewski’s visit a secret, and 
could throw no light upon the mysterious crime, 
I was set at liberty. 

The tragedy created a great sensation through- 
out Paris, especially when it became known that 
General Martianoff, who was popular in society, 
and supposed to be a retired officer possessing 
ample means, was in reality chief of the French 
section of secret police. The funeral took place 
at P^re Lachaise a week afterward, but neither 
the mouchards of M. Goron nor the spies of the 
Tzar discovered the murderer. 

Information by some means, however, reached 
the police, that Zadlewski had not returned to 
the club in the Rue Royale. He was at once 
suspected, especially when it was discovered that 
immediately after the murder he had left for 
Brussels. But the far reaching influence of Ni- 
hilism had already been set to work, and although 
the police of Europe were watching for the fugi- 
tive, yet they were baffled at every turn. He 
moved from place to place with an alacrity’ that 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


309 


was almost incredible. Secret information we 
received showed that after leaving Paris he fled 
to Namur, thence to Brussels, Antwerp, London, 
Palermo, Malta, and Gibraltar. While at the 
latter place he became despondent, and a fiasco 
nearly resulted. So rapidly had he traveled that 
the money collected for him in Geneva and Lon- 
don did not reach him, consequently he found 
himself at the “Rock” penniless and starving. 
In this condition he was walking the streets, and 
had determined to give himself up to the Eng- 
lish authorities, when a delegate from the Paris 
Circle found him, and supplied him with funds, 
by which he was enabled to sail for America. 

For several months nothing further was heard 
of him, although a member of the La Glaci^re 
colony, who was connected with the Havas Press 
Agency, from time to time circulated reports as 
to the movements of the fugitive, in order to 
place the police on false scents. 

One morning, however, the papers published 
what appeared to be an authentic account of 
Zadlewski’s suicide, which had taken place in a 
remote village in Texas. The pistol with which 
he had shot himself bore the name of a well 
known Paris politician, who was known to have 


310 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


aided the criminal in his flight. Photographs 
which were afterward forwarded to France were 
those of Zadlewski. Moreover, some of the lists 
of Revolutionists resident in the French capital, 
which were abstracted from the spy’s bureau, 
were found upon the body, together with a writ- 
ten confession of the crime. 

No doubt was therefore entertained by the 
police as to the suicide’s identity, and the search 
for the assassin was consequently relinquished. 

One winter’s afternoon several months after- 
ward, I was sitting at home in my chambers, 
when I received an unexpected visit from 
Mascha. 

“Congratulate me, Vladimir,’’ she said gayly, 
after we had exchanged warm greetings. “I 
have married !’’ 

“Married !’’ I ejaculated. 

“Yes. Our wedding took place in Paris yes- 
terday. Although you know my husband by 
sight, you have never spoken to him.” 

“What’s his name?” 

“Andr^ Chaudet.” 

“The son of Count Felix Chaudet?” I asked, 
surprised. 


THE TZAHS SPY. 


311 

“Yes,” she replied, laughing. “I knew him 
when he was an attache 2X the French Embassy 
at Petersburg, and although after poor Ivan’s 
death we became engaged, we resolved to keep 
the matter a secret. He joined our Circle, but 
his Revolutionary tendency was discovered by 
the police, and he was recalled to France. In 
one of his letters he told me that he had become 
friendly with a General Martianoff. Knowing 
that our enemy, the ex-governor of Mstislavl, 
was in the service of the ‘Third Section,’ I sus- 
pected that he was being drawn into the spider’s 
web. Therefore I proceeded to Paris in order 
to keep watch upon the spy, and warn Andre 
against him. I had no idea that you were en- 
gaged in the same matter or that you had dis- 
covered who murdered Natalya Lebedeff until 
one day, quite recently, when they were talking 
of it at a meeting at La Glaci^re.” 

“But you were aware that Zadlewski had 
killed the general?” 

“Ah ! there even you are mistaken,” she said, 
with a smile. “Paul was innocent.” 

“How can that be?” I asked. “I was present 
when he entered the room, and when he left the 
house after the assassination.” 


312 


THE TZAHS SPY. 


“Exactly. But although he sought the spy 
intending to carry out the sentence of death that 
had been passed, he did not commit the deed. 
It was through me — his victim — that the tyrant 
of Mstislavl was killed ! On the night previous 
to the tragedy I was with Karl Schoraffe, who, as 
you know, was one of my admirers. I related to 
him the story of my life at Mstislavl, and the 
brutal treatment you and I received at the hands 
of Martianoff. My description of his brutality, 
coupled with the vile conspiracy against Lebe- 
deff, so incensed him that he swore he would 
remove the Tzar’s chief spy with his own hand. 
I did not regard his words seriously, but on the 
following morning, while I was waiting in the 
boulevard in order to follow Martianoff when he 
emerged from his house, he approached me. He 
was wild looking and haggard. T have killed 
him !’ he whispered, at the same time handing 
me some papers. Then he hurried along the 
boulevard and was quickly lost to view. The 
next I heard was that Zadlewski was suspected.’’ 

“But Paul fled to America.” 

“True. But only in order to baffle the police. 
He has not committed suicide, for I have here a 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


313 


letter which he wrote from New York to my hus- 
band only a week ago.” 

I took the note and read it. There was no 
doubt it was from him, for I recognized the 
handwriting. 

Subsequent inquiries I made fully confirmed 
Mascha’s solution of the mystery. It had fallen 
to Paul Zadlewski’s lot to compass the death of 
General Martianoff, but, prompted by vengeance, 
Karl Schoraffe — one of the most desperate of the 
Terrorists — had entered the room and assas- 
sinated the Chief of Secret Police while I was 
absent delivering the letter in the Avenue de 
rOp^ra. 

After Zadlewski had made good his escape, 
and Schoraffe considered himself secure, he 
pressed Mascha to marry him. But she refused, 
and kept her promise to Andr^. 

Count Chaudet having died, she now lives 
happily at the chateau with her husband. Both 
are still enthusiastic and sanguine as to the ulti- 
mate success of the struggle for freedom, and, 
being possessed of an ample fortune, contribute 
generously to the Revolutionary Fund. 

The Terrorists are now pausing. They believe 


THE TZAR'S SPY. 


3M 

that the ravages caused by the famine in Russia 
can never be repaired. The vast Empire of the 
Tzar has now no alternative but to resign herself 
and gradually sink to the position of a decaying 
power like Turkey, or to throw open her gates to 
European progress, which goes hand in hand 
with freedom. 

At present, the Russian people are disloyal 
and socialistic, their stifled patriotic feelings 
being concealed beneath the iron mask of Ni- 
hilism. Until the new era dawns-^as it certainly 
must ere long — the Great White Terror will con- 
tinue to combat Autocracy and Officialdom, its 
Damoclean force becoming stronger and more 
irresistible, until it brings a disaster upon the 
House of the Romanoffs that will startle the 
world. 


THE END. 


A LITERARY NOVELTY. 


The Fate of Fenella. 


BY THE FOLLOWING WELL KNOWN AUTHORS: 

HELE?^ MATHERS, JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, M. P., FRANCES ELEANOR 
TROLLOPE, A. CONAN DOYLE, MAY CROMMELIN, F. C. PHILLIPS, “RITA,” 
JOSEPH HATTON, MRS. LOVETT CAMERON, BRAM STOKER, FLORENCE 
MARRYAT, FRANK DANBY, MRS. EDWARD KENNARD, RICHARD DOWLING, 
MRS. HUNGERFORD, ARTHUR A’BECKETT, JEAN MIDDLEMASS, CLEMENT 
SCOTT, CLO. GRAVES, H. W. LUCY, ADELINE SERGEANT, G. MANVILLE 
FENN, “TASMA,” and F. ANSTEY. 


One Volume, 12mo, Unique Clotli Binding, $1.00. 


That a story by twenty-four writers of as widely different styles as 
those here i-epresented should be so ivell rounded and so natural in its 
progress is a matter of no small wonder., and “ The Fate of Fenella'^* 
deserves a conspicuous place among the successes as well as among the 
curiosities of literature. 

“ Brimful of interest.” — Philadelphia Hem. 

“ Well done.” — New York Recoi'der. 

“ I'his venture is a success.” — Buffalo Commercial. 

“ 'The result is surprisingly happy.” — Philadelphia Eve - 
iiing Bulletin. 

“ Will be widely read.” — Revieiv of Reviews. 

“ Of constant interest and decided strength.” — Boston 
2'iines. 

“ We commend it not merely as a literary curiosity, 
but on account of its own intrinsic worth.” — Ansonia 
Sentinel. 

“ It is surely an extraordinary novel. . . . Likely 

to be one of the successes of the season.” — New York 
Christian Intelligencer. 

FOR SALE B Y ALL BOOKSELLERS. 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

• 104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


71 


\‘*A Story with a Purpose.*) / 

HELEN BRENT, M. D. 

p : Social ; Study— 


I vol., zamo, Cloth. Uniform with “Shall Girls Propose?” Dainty 
binding, gilt top, 75 cents. 


A book that claims more than ordinary attention, 
touching as it does upon a subject of vital importance 
in modern life. 

“ Exceedingly well written.” — Boston Beacon. 

” Deserves thoughtful reading.” — Ne^v York Times. 

“ Of rare merit.” — Chicago Evening Post. 

Unique as it is interesting.” — Boston Home Journal. 

“ Written with a great deal of spirit.” — Brooklyn Citizen. 

“The interest of the story is unflagging, and the impressior. ft 
leaves on the reader is lasting and beneficial. ” — Ne^u York Evening 
Telegram. 

“ A social study of great value. ... A powerful denunciation of 
the theory that a professional life destroys the domestic element in 
woman.” — Ansonia Sentinel. 

“ Reveals truths not spoken from the housetops, but existing, 
nevertheless.” — Boston Times. 

“ Treated with a good deal of skill and ingenuity.” — Cleveland 
Leader. 

“ Contains a moral which all may lay to heart with profit .” — Boston 
Saturday Evening Gazette. 


FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York.. 


90 


A NEW BOOK BY MAX O’RELL. 


ENGLISH PHARISEES, 

FRENCH CROCODILES, 

And other Anglo-French Typical Characters, 

By MAX O’RELL, 

Author of “ A Frenchman in America,” “ Jonathan and his Conti- 
nent,” “John Bull and His Island,” etc., etc. 

One Volume, 12mo, Cloth, Gilt Top, $1,50, 


Never was our friendly critic more delightfully humorous, never 
tnore skillful in probing shams than he appears in this new volume, 
devoted to displaying the weaknesses as well as the good points of his 
native land and the land of his adoption. 


“ To do proper justice to Max O’Rell’s work would mean to print 
columns of trenchant extracts.” — Philadelphia Item. 

“ The same crisp, witty, and epigrammatic style, the same delight- 
ful badinage which have made him so entertaining in his other 
b'^oks.” — New York Home Journal. 

“ Pleasantly humorous, instructively analytical, and most delight- 
fully satirical— in all a pleasure to read more than once.” — Chicago 
Mail. 

“ The children of Jonathan will read this new book by their warm 
and genial friend with delightful and really instructive interest.” — 
Boston Home Journal. 

” His pen pictures of the French peasant and the French bourgeois 
show observation and felicity of expression better, perhaps, than any- 
thing else he has done.” — Kate Field's Washington. 

“ Interesting, clever, and instructive.” — Boston Times. 

“ No one who read ‘ Jonathan and His Continent,’ and ‘ A 
Frenchman in America,’ will fail to take the very first opportunity to 
secure this latest of O'Rell’s works.” — Seattle Press- Times, 


For Sale by all Fooksellers, 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


- Charming Stories of Life in India • 

BY . 

“AN IDLE EXILE.” 




BY A HIMALAYAN LAKE. 

A Novel. By “An Idle Exile.” i vol., i2mo, cloth, 75 cents; 
paper, 50 cents. {Cassell's Sunshine Seties.) 

“ Fresh and delightful.” — Boston Eveiiing Traveller. 

INDIAN IDYLS. 

By “An Idle Exile.” i vol., i2mo, cloth, 75 cents; paper, 50 
cents. {Cassell's Sunshine Series ) 

“ Picturesque in character, strong in interest, admirable in literary style, and 
effective in the telling.” — Buffalo Commercial. 

” One seldom finds in short stories more virility and stronger character than in 
these sketches by ‘ An Idle Exile.’ ” — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

“ Admirable.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“ Well written and bear evidence of a thorough acquaintance with Anglo-Indian 
life.” — St. Louis Republic. 

IN TENT AND BUNGALOW. 

By “An Idle Exile.” i vol., i2mo, unique cloth binding, 50 
cents. {The “ Unknown" Library.') 

“ All are given with a swing and dash, a rhythm and finish which make them 
attractive reading.” — Toledo Sunday Journal. 

” A charming collection.” — Boston Times. 

” True literary merit.” — Pkiladell>hia Item. 

“Well told.” — San Francisco Chronicle. 

“ The book will answer capitally for the cars or the hammock as the warm days 
draw on.” — Boston Congregationalist. 


For Sale by all Booksellers. 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 Fourth Ave., New York. 

64 


IMPRESSIONS OF ITALY. 


By Paul Bourget. Translated by Mary J. Serrano, i vol., l2mo, 
cloth, gilt top, $1.50. 


Cathedrals, paintings, landscapes, statuary, bits of his- 
tory and biography — all these, with many other topics, 
'are delicately woven into this delightful and unconven- 
tional narrative of travel. 


“ No place is found by him so poor, so humble, so stagnant, that he cannot 
evoke from it some picturesque fancy, some interesting association.” — New York 
Tribune. 

” Warmly sympathetic . . . bright, vivid.” — Boston Journal. 

“ Gives a new meaning to many famous works of art by his brilliant word pic- 
tures and the imaginative light that he casts upon scenes that have passed into 
story.” — San Francisco Chronicle. 

” This latest volume from the pen of Paul Bourget is an altogether delightful 
one.” — Boston Traveller. 

“ Charming.” — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

” Throughout the whole volume there is not a page that does not contain inter- 
esting matter.” — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

“ To read this work . . . is a positive delight.” — The Young Man, 

” A book to read leisurely and joyfully.” — Washington Public Opinion. 

“ A word painter of consummate skill.” — Boston Times, 


For Sale by all Foolasellevs, 


CASSELL P0BLISHIN6 COMPANY, 

104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE, - - NEW YORK 

63 


THE CHARMING AND POPULAR 


WORKS OF MRS. L. T. MEADE. 


Very few authors have achieved a popularity equal to that of 
Mrs. Meade as a writer of stories for young people. Her characters 
are living beings of flesh and blood, not lay figures of conventional 
type. Into the trials, crosses, in short the everyday experiences of 
these, the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. 
While Mrs. Meade always writes with a high moral purpose, her les- 
sons of love, purity, and nobility of character are rather inculcated 
by example than intruded as sermons. 


A SWEET GIRL GRADUATE, i vol., i2mo, extra 
cloth, with illustrations, $1.50. 

A WORLD OF GIRLS. Illustrated, i vol., i: m j, extra 
cloth, gold and colored inks, $1.50. 

POLLY: A NEW-FASHIONED GIRL. With full-page 
illustrations, i vol., i2mo, cloth, gilt, $1.50. 

THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL. A Story for Girls. 

With eight full-page plates, i vol., i2mo, cloth, $1.50. 

THE CHILDREN OF WILTON CHASE. i vol., 
i2mo, extra cloth, with illustrations, $1.50. 

FOUR ON AN ISLAND. A Book for the Little Folks. 

I vol., i 2 mo, extra cloth, with illustrations, $1.50. 

A RING OF RUBIES, i vol., i2mo, extra cloth, with 
illustrations, $1.50. 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Ave., New York. 


59 


Even virtue is more fair xvhen it appears in a beautiful 
person . ” — V I R GiL. 

MY LADY’S DRESSING ROOM. 

A Manual of the Toilet. 

Adapted from the French of the Baronne Staffe. With an Intrt 
duction and Notes by Harriet Hubbard Ayer. 

One Vol., IBmo, vitli Portrait, Dainty Binding, Giit Top, $1.50. 

“ It would be difficult to find a more thoroughly useful and prac- 
tical book for women.” — New York Herald. 

“ Should have a place upon every toilet table.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ A study of this wise, comprehensive, and intelligible bo<3k will be 
most helpful to every woman who desires the health and beauty God 
designed she should possess.” — Chicago Saturday Evening Herald. 
“Excellent and useful.” — Brooklyn Standard- Union. 

“Very complete.” — Arthur's Home Magazine. 

“ An admirable manual.” — New York Homefournal. 

“ Of real practical value.” — Boston Home Journal. 

“ Has a wholesomely hygienic basis.” — Louisville Courier- Journal. 
“Full of information upon all questions pertaining to the femi- 
nine toilet.” — Chicago Tribune. 

“ Commends itself to the attention of every woman who desires to 
appear at her best.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“ Practical, useful.” — Washmgton Post. 

“ Valuable and entertaining.” — New York Recorder. 

“ Contains much good advice.” — Boston Times. 

“ A lovely and useful book.” — Charleston News and Courier. 

“ A vast amount of useful information.” — Philadelphia Item. 
“Attractive without as well as within.” — Boston Traveller, 

Cassell Publishing Company, 

104 & 106 FOURTH AVE, - NEW YORK. 


THE BOOK OF 

PITY AND OF DEATH 

A COLLECTION OF STORIES 

By PIERRE LOTI. 

Translated from the French by T. P. O’Connor, M. P., author 
of “ Parnell and the Irish Movement,” etc., etc. i vol., 
i2mo. Cloth, 75 cts.; Paper, 50 cts. 


Everyone who admires literary style, everyone who 
enjoys good stories, will read with delight this volume 
of pathetic and touching tales. 

“ There is remarkable power in the book, and it is distinguished 
by an originality that is equally refreshing and interesting.” — Boston 
Saturday Evaiing Gazette. 

“ Charming as well as pathetic.” — Hartford Times. 

“ Told with simple truth and earnestness.” — Arthur's Home 
Magazine. 

“ VVill touch many hearts by its tenderness and insight.” — Boston 
Beacon. 

“ M. Loti gives a charm to the homeliest subject. It is not of 
what he v rites, but the manner in ^hich he writes that the reader 
thinks.” — Deni'er Times. 

“Along with their art and warmth of feeling, the poetry and 
picturesqueness of style, which have made this writer famous, are 
amply in evidence.” — Hartford Courant. 


For Sale h\f all IBook sellers. 


CASSELL PUBLISHING -COMPANY. 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York.. 


57 


ROSE AND NINETTE 

A Story of tlie Morals aail Manaers of tie Day. 

By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 

Translated by Mary J. Serrano, i voL, i2mo, 
Cloth, 75 cts.; Paper, 50 cts. 


M. Daudet regards this story as the supreme effort of 
his life. It deals with the subject of divorce, and is 
written with a power that indicates the author’s deep 
feeling on this leading social problem. Simple in plot, 
free from any hint of the vulgarly sensational, every 
page glows with the touch of the true literary artist. 

“ A very strong and brilliant picture. . . . Treated with the light 
and sure hand of M. Daudet.” — Literary World. 

“ An entertaining study.” — Hartford 7'imes. 

“ A marvel of artistic construction.” — Sa7t Francisco Wave. 

“Wonderfully strong .” — Bostofi Tinies. 

“ Daudet’s diction is always exquisite, and this charm is not lost 
in the adept translation of the present novel.” — Des Moines Mail 
and Times. 

“ A strong piece of work.” — Brooklyn Times. 

*' A fine example of the author’s talent.” — Philadelphia Item. 

“ Entertaining.” — Detroit Journal. 


For Sale by all liooksellers* 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & io6 Fourth Avenue, New York, 


58 


FAMOUS BOOKS BY JULES VERNE 


MISTRESS BRANICAN. 

By JULES VERNE. 

Translated from the French by A. Estoclet. Illustrated by 

L. Bennett. 

Small 8vo, extra cloth, $2.00. 

“ Will rank among the author’s best.” — New Haven Journal and Courier. 

“ Teems with wonders and adventures which could only have found their birth 
in the most imaginative brain of any living author.” — New York Observer. 

“ Packed full with marvelous adventures, hair-breadth escapes and strange 
things seen in out-of-the-way places thousands of miles apart.” — San Francisco 
Chronicle. 

” Jules Verne’s admirers will welcome this addition to his narratives of adven- 
ture.’ ’ — Ph iladelpk ia Inquirer. 

“ Intensely interesting. . . . Beneath the surface of all the writings of this 
noted author there is an abundance of information which is scientifically accurate.” 
Iowa School Journal. 


C^SAR CASCABEL. 

By JULES VERNE. 

Translated from the French by A. Estoclet. With all the original 
French illustrations by George Roux. 

1 voL, 12mo, extra cloth, $1.00 ; paper, Cassell’s Sunshine 

Series, 50 cents. 

This book appeals strongly to Atnerican readers^ the scene of more than 
hnlf of the story being laid in A merica. 

‘‘ The tale is one of the most thrilling and ingenious of Verne’s writings.” — 
Boston Daily A dvertiser. 

” An extremely well told and entertaining story.” — New York Times. 

“ A most characteristic and active romance.” — Christian Advocate. 

” Narrated with . . . inimitable story-telling art.” — Brooklyn Times- 

” Will be welcomed with delight by that large army of young readers for whom 
he has written so much and so -wOM— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“ It is a book for old and young.” — A merican Bookseller. 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 

48 


A NEW BOOK BY MAX O'RELL 


A Frenchman in America. 

BY 

MAX O’RELL, 

Author of Jonathan and His Continent *John Bull and His 
Island^'' *John Bull, Jr'.f' ** Jacques 
BonhommeJ etc. 

WITH OVER 130 ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. W. KEMBLE. 

I Vol., Octavo, Extra Cloth, $2.00. 

Also in Paper, Cassell’s Sunshine Series, 50 Cents. 

Max O’Rell has been not inaptly styled the French Mark Twain. Cer- 
Uinly he aims to entertain, and he hits the mark every time. His fund 
of anecdote and apt illustration appears to be absolutely inexhaustible. 

So, in the present volume, he gives mainly the humorous side of his 
experience as a lecturer in America, and freely expresses, in his owi^ 
inimitable fashion, his ideas of the people he met, both those who charmed 
and those who only — amused him. Nor is it the people alone that he 
passes under review. Our institutions, laws, manners, customs, social 
life, and, indeed, everything which could interest a profoundly intelligent 
and shrewd observer, are all subjects for his swift and friendly critical pen. 

Further than this it is only necessary to assure the multitude of Max 
O’Rell’s readers that he does not repeat himself in his new volume. It is 
brimming with interest, and as fresh as though the genial author had 
never before written a line about America. 

Mr. Kemble has caught the spirit of the text with wonderful fidelity, 
and gives us over 130 original illustrations which greatly increase the 
piquancy and value of the book. 

“ A Frenchman in America ” is sure of a hearty welcome. 


FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 

44 


Shall Girls Propose? 

AND OTHER PAPERS ON 

LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 

BY 

A “ SPECULATIVE BACHELOR.” 


1 Volume, New and Unique Style, Extra Cloth, 
Gilt Top, Erixe 75 Cents, 


“ The book, taken all in all, is a very clever composition, and can 
be read with interest by those that contemplate matrimony, those 
that have taken the plunge, and also by those that are still heart free. 
It is written in an entertaining style, and the hackneyed subject of 
love is treated throughout in a novel manner.” — Neiu York Com- 
mercial Advertiser. 

“ The volume is a small one, but it is full of meat from cover to 
cover.” — American Bookseller. 

“ Unique, delightful Exhaustive — but far from exhaust- 
ing Whoever reads the entertaining little volume will be 

repaid.” — New York Blpoch. 

** Strange topics for a bachelor to choose on which to exercise his 
literary powers ! But he has acquitted himself admirably.” — Chicago 
Times. 

“The author is never frivolous, although his touch is light and 
merry. ” — Boston T imes. 

“ Very much to the point.” — Boston Beacon. 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Ave., New York. 

so 


4 


IN A STEAMEI! CHAIR 

And Other Shipboard Stories, 

BY 

ROBERT BARR. 

(Luke Sharp.) 


One Volume, i2mo, Cloth, 75 cts.; Paper, 50 cts. 


Mr. Robert Barr is the latest, but not the least, of 
latter-day humorists. His wit is typically American 
(although he is a Canadian), which means that it is 
spontaneous and convincing. His book is bubbling 
over with fun, and will make many a dull hour merry. 


“ Of much merit All flavored with sea breezes.” 

— Boston CouHer, 

“ Charming . . . and should add much to Luke Sharp’s well 
merited fame.” — Detroit Journal. 

“ All bright and interesting.” — Boston Home Journal. 

“ Excellent . . . racy and characteristic.” — Boston Times. 

“ Exceedingly entertaining.” — Detroit Sunday News. 

“ A charming book in every way.” — Philadelphia Item. 

“ Well told and very interesting.” — Illustrated Christian Weekly. 

“ The author’s familiarity with life on board the steamships plying 
between the United States and Europe is utilized in this volume with 
exceedingly happy results. ” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 


For Sale by all Booksellers, 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


** Mrs. Burton Harrison stands in the front rank of American novelists.” 

— Buffalo Commercial, 

THE POPULAR NOVELS 

OF 

Mrs. Burton Harrison. 


THE ANGLOMANIACS. 


A Story of New York Society of To-day.' i vol., i2mo, 
Extra Cloth, $i.oo. Paper, 50 cents. 

” The success of the season .” — New York Tribune. 

” Constructed with masterly skill .” — Charleston Sunday News. 

“ A clever satire throughout .” — BaltBnore Sun. 

FLOWER DE HUNDRED. 


The Story of a Virginia Plantation, i vol., i2mo. Extra 
Cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50 cents. 

“ Full of admirable character sketches.” — New York Observer. 

‘‘ A wonderfully vivid and pleasant story.” — New York Tribune, 

“ A brilliant piece of fiction.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ One of the best romances of recent writing.' - - Independent. 

A DAUGHTER OF THE SOUTH. 

And Shorter Stories, i vol., i2mo, Cloth, Dainty Binding, 
$1.00. 

“Mrs. Harrison . . . infuses into her Southern stories the color, the sentiment, 
the pathos which will long cling to the home of the palmetto and the palm.” — 
Boston Times. 

“ Marked with the keen, delicate, and yet incisive genius of the author.” — 
Ohio State Journal. 


For Sale by all Booksellers. 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


69 


A NEW BOOK BY JULIEN GORDON, 


MARIONETTES 

— —A NOVEL. 

By Julien Gordon, author of “ A Diplomat’s 
Diary,” “ Vampires,” “ A Puritan Pagan,” etc. 

One Volume, i2mo, Extra Cloth, $i.oo. 


“Julien Gordon has never written anything stronger than 
this story, and in some respects it may be regarded as her mas- 
terpiece.” — Chicago Herald. 

“ Every page breathes freshness and originality. . . Forcibly 
and gracefully told.” — Boston Courier. 

“ A powerful story.” — New^ York Recorder. 

“ Quite sustains the reputation made by the author of ‘ A 
Diplomat’s Diary,’ and ‘ A Puritan Pagan.’ ” — Chicago Evening 
Post. 

“ Julien Gordon is one of the freshest, raciest, keenest, and 
most successful of American writers.” — Ohio State Jourtial. 

“ The power of the book is unquestionable.” — Boston Satur- 
day Evening Gazette. 

“ Bears the same delicate touches which have made all of 
her earlier works delightful.” — Chicago Mail. 

“ Of absorbing interest.” — Boston Ho7ne Journal. 

“ A very entertaining novel.” — Philadelphia Press. 

FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


72 


ZOLA’S GREATEST NOVEL 

THE DOWNFALL. 

(LA DEBACLE.) 

A STORY OF THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR. 

By EMILE ZOLA. 


One Volume, i2mo, Paper, 50 cents. 

Extra Cloth, Laid Paper, with Eight Illustrations, $1.50. 


“ A story of tremendous force. . . None of the charges 
made against most of the author’s books can rest upon this. . . 
‘ The Downfall ’ is a great book — in some parts grand, and it 
must stand as its author’s masterpiece.” — New York Herald. 

“ The supreme effort of M. Zola’s literary career. . . It 
ought to win him a large audience among those who have 
heretofore looked at him askance. No more powerful argu- 
ment against war was ever penned. . . M. Zola will be known 
as the author of ‘ The Downfall ’ when his other books have 
been forgotten.” — New York Recorder. 

“ He has made studies of the harrowing incidents of the 
German invasion and the episode of the Commune truly 
amazing in thoroughness of research. . . Interest in the nar- 
ration is not allowed to flag for a moment.” — Philadelphia 
Evening Telegraph. 

“ Any one taking up this book will read it through .” — New 
York Evening Telegram. 


Of all the short story writers rve are inclined^ in many respects^ to give 
Mr, A. T. Quiller-Couch the first position ." — New York Times. 


THE VERY POPlJEAR 

NOVELS AND SKETCHES BY "Q.” 

I SAW THREE SHIPS, 

And Other Winter Tales. By A. T. Quiller-Couch (“ Q”)* * 

vol., i2mo, cloth, 75 cents ; paper (Sunshine Series), 50 cents. 

“ Capital construction . . . racy humor . . . rich variety.” — Literary 

World. 

THE BLUE PAVILIONS. 

8vo, extra cloth, ink and gold dies, inlaid, $1.25. (Cassell’s New 
Series of International Copyright Novels.) 

“ Chief of the recent novels.” — Quarterly Register ofi Current History. 

NOUGHTS AND CROSSES. 

STORIES, STUDIES, AND SKETCHES. 

I vol., i2nio, cloth, 75 cents ; paper (Sunshine Series), 50 cents. 

“ Some of the sketches in the present volume are surpassed by nothing in the 
language for delicacy, for artistic style, for quaint humor, and for pathos.” — San 
Francisco Chronicle. 

DEAD MAN’S ROCK. 

A ROMANCE. 

I vol., i2mo, cloth, 75 cents ; paper (Sunshine Series), 50 cents. 

** Powerful and striking .” — New York Mail and Express. 

THE SPLENDID SPUR. 

Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Ser- 
vant of His late Majesty, King Charles T., in the years 1642-43. 
Written by himself. Edited, in modern English, by “Q.” i vol., 
i2mo, cloth, 75 cents ; paper (Sunshine Series), 50 cents. 

“ The writer of ‘ The Splendid Spur’ ... has a clear, rapid, manly style, 
an inexhaustible fund of incident, and the capital and indispensable knack of 
making his people interesting.” — 't'he Critic. 

THE ASTONISHING HISTORY OF 
TROY TOWN. 

I vol., i2mo, cloth, 75 cents ; paper (Sunshine Series), 50 cents. 

“ There is a fine old crusted flavor (to use a fine old crusted phrase) about the 
humor of ‘ Troy Town.’ ” — Pall Mall Gazette. 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, ... NEW YORK. 


'i 





YEMWQILWj 

OF ("oACHi5 

rREEltccLininG Chair Cars 


v/if'HoiJi' €H/\Wg^ 


C01,0N16T sl.b^v>e:rs, 
F»ULl,MAW AHD WAGNER 
DRAWING ROOM SLEEPING CARS 

ahdSUPEKB dining cars. 


JFuIl jitfoTiBAlioii cojicemins 

TAtes, time, of trains, etc- can he ) 
ohtained of aigr Ticket A^ent. 


eniCAGO ro 

OnARA 

15X HRS, 

DENVER 

33/a „ 

Portland 

82 „ 

San FRANCISCO 

85 ,, 

ST. PAUL 

13/a 

AINNEAPOLIS 

14 

DULUTH 

16 




’ Gen’l,i*to4|et VA-ffiiyuX^^i 


13 









